


it is an unmooring of the mind

by Azaphod



Series: in the family of things [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Casual Physical Affection, Drowning, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Lonely Typical Depression And Manipulation, Nonbinary Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Other, Selkies, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:48:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 46,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25128034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azaphod/pseuds/Azaphod
Summary: On the one such night he decided to take a walk around the open deck for some air--nightmares, even this far from home, still find ways to reach him--he finds himself falling almost into a trance upon reaching the top of the stairs, gazing out at the ocean, hidden under a light chill of fog. There is nothing for as far as the eye can see in the dark, and he feels impossibly small with the fact.He only startles out of his daze when the mist seems to crawl up the side of the ship, like some ghost of a leviathan, tendrils reaching for him, snaring out cloud white vines to creep around his ankles.Martin trips halfway down the stairs in his haste to return to his bunk, and his dreams are plagued not by his usual nightmares, but of thick, suffocating fog.OR, Martin is a crew member of the Tundra.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: in the family of things [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1881805
Comments: 159
Kudos: 293





	1. PAN-PAN

Contrary to popular belief, Martin isn't an idiot, despite what his peers or his mother might think otherwise. He hasn’t gotten this far in his life to not have enough sense to know when something is shady, and he knows there's something... _off_ about this job. 

The ship he finds himself on isn't small, in fact it’s big enough to warrant a sizable amount of people to keep it running, and that striding across without running into another crew member is odd, and yet he never does. His fellows seem to ghost away, always just out of line of sight, like cold mirages. They are faceless, unknown. Sometimes he hears their jovial laughter from below decks, but they seem to clear out the moment he sets foot on the steps down. 

But they aren’t _ghosts_ , they’re just _people._ People that didn’t care for Martin Blackwood.

All in all it's strange, and _incredibly_ lonely.

He tries to keep his head up, he isn't here to make _friends_ or anything. He shouldn't be here at all; he is _vastly_ under qualified for the job, with barely a lick of sailing knowledge under his belt--unless you count that one time he went fishing with his father when he was very small, before the man up and vanished. But he is in need of the money, so he puts on a winning smile in front of their captain, and feigns his way through everything he can. 

Not that there’s much to do anyways, no one really gives him any tasks, and most days he just wonders what would happen if he opened one of the cargo containers, just to take a peek. He doesn’t though, he _needs_ the job and snooping around would definitely get him sacked. 

Even so, it’s more then a little alarming when he's given a pair of _knuckles_ on his third day aboard, when it’s already far too late to back out. To be fair, they’re very well made, if a bit worn. Heavy and made solidly of silver or iron, he can’t rightly tell. He holds them up to the light and carved into the sides are two twin ships, simplistically depicted and entrenched in fog. 

"Trust me, you'll find a use for them aboard the Tundra." is the only explanation he's given from their mysterious captain before the elusive man retreats into his cabin. Though the effect is somewhat ruined by the bright tune screeching out from his ancient flip phone as he goes. 

\--

He learns to stay below decks at night.

On the one such night he decided to take a walk around the open deck for some air--nightmares, even this far from home, still find ways to reach him--he finds himself falling almost into a trance upon reaching the top of the stairs, gazing out at the ocean, hidden under a light chill of fog. There is nothing for as far as the eye can see in the dark, and he feels impossibly small with the fact. 

He only startles out of his daze when the mist seems to crawl up the side of the ship, like some ghost of a leviathan, tendrils reaching for him, snaring out cloud white vines to creep around his ankles. 

Martin trips halfway down the stairs in his haste to return to his bunk, and his dreams are plagued not by his usual nightmares, but of thick, suffocating fog.

\--

The next morning he is unsurprised to find the mess is deserted, of course. Though it bears signs of past use; dishes cluttered in their return stations, a spare jacket laying atop one of the benches, forgotten. Martin sits gingerly, with a sad portion of something that might have once qualified as vegetables and some stale tasting toast on his plate, picking at it while he works up the courage to eat. 

He is equal parts startled and intensely relieved when the sound of footsteps grows steadily louder, until a figure fills the doorframe. 

This feeling somewhat lessens when it turns out to just be his captain, and not any of the elusive crew mates. Did Martin do something wrong? It was rather likely, now that he thought about it. _Did he smell?_

He realizes, belatedly, that he is silently staring at the man from across the room as he goes about obtaining his own plate of disgusting mush, and feels an oh-so familiar wave of anxiety wash over him. 

“Oh, hello! It’s uh-nice weather out today?” Martin says to break the uncomfortable silence, laughing nervously. He cringes--too loud, too _obvious._ “Is the weather usually so...weird?”

The captain eyes him, a quick glance up and down and then smiles. “All things at sea tend to lean into the strange, the weather included.” 

“So it gets foggy a lot then, Mr Lukas?”

“Please, call me Peter.”

He absolutely will not. “Right, sure.”

“But to answer your question, yes.”

Peter Lukas is not a strange looking man, nor is he particularly interesting. His clothes are drab, and his eyes are soft in a way that is not kindly, like steel wool. He should not be getting his meals from the crews’ kitchen, but the fact that he is doesn’t strike Martin as weird until much later.

“Is it usually, um.” Martin struggles, wringing his hands together. “Has it--have you ever felt like-hm. Nevermind, I’m just tired and--”

“What does it feel like?”

He can feel Lukas’ gaze on him, pinning him down and holding him in place. His ears ring in the silence, not even the chug of the engines nor the crash of the waves can overcome it, and sweat slides slowly down his back.

“Empty.” he says, his mouth moves and pulls the words from his mind against his better judgement. “Just empty, like there’s nothing else in the world. Just me, alone.”

He blinks rapidly, feeling the heat of embarrassment hot on his face and the back of his neck. But Lukas nods in agreement, though he can’t guess for the life of him why. “I wouldn’t fret much over it, Martin.” he replies, “the mind plays dangerous games out here, tricks your senses.”

“Right!” Martin says with a half hearted attempt at a laugh. “‘Course.”

“Anyways, I do hope you’ve been adjusting well, please let me know if the crew are...” Lukas pauses, as if searching for the right word. “overzealous, they get excited by new recruits.”

Lukas mimes an elbow nudge, as if he isn’t a good ten feet away. He gives a cheery little wave as he departs, tray in hand. 

He’s still nodding along amicably before the words catch up with Martin's anxiety stressed brain. They go against everything he’s known to be true about his crew mates, which were closer kin to ghosts then friendly coworkers for all he cared. But the thought that they were really a close knit community of people, laughing and joking over breakfast before Martin even woke…

A sickly, hollow feeling fills him, and he nudges his tray of food away. 

\--

They pull into a port not long into their venture on the sea; it’s a pleasant enough town set upon the seaside with a long name Martin forgets immediately. Something starting with a _B_. 

Their captain encourages them to leave the ship and mill about as he tends to whatever business he has in this strangely bustling place. The crew scatters away before Martin can get a word in about a group outing and he’s left alone with his bag.

For a moment he considers hunting down a payphone to ring his mum, but the thought of hearing the sympathetic receptionist’s soft voice once again insisting that no, she could not come to the phone right now-- _she’s just settled down for a nap, would you like to call back later?_ \--he decides against it. 

The town is distractingly lovely, if a little bit too touristy for Martin’s tastes. But he grabs some food from a nearby shop and resigns himself to wander the pier aimlessly for the remainder of the day. Unfortunately for him, he is instantly besieged by a local who takes one look at his unassuming demeanor and writes _him_ up as a tourist, and very stoically insists he should rent a boat from him. 

_And well, he was very persuasive_ , Martin reasons, as he settles into his newly rented boat. 

It could be worse though; once he’s back on the water the familiar ache of loneliness settles over him like a warm coat. The water is pretty, the breeze feels nice against his skin, and he’s far enough away that the bustle of people sounds distant, unconcerning. 

He breathes, long and drawn out, some of the tension within him lessens. The constant performance of competency in something he knew nothing about was going to put greys in his hair at this point. Maybe the money hadn’t been worth it. 

This time his sigh is small. A choking little thing quickly stifled by the turn of the waves. 

In the gentle quiet, it doesn’t take long to notice something’s wrong. The water churns abruptly to his portside, too suddenly and aggressively to be natural. The sun momentarily ceases blinding him and he catches sight of an oblong shape under the water, too far down to identify, but close enough to have Martin’s heart jumping into his throat. 

“Hello?” Martin says dumbly, his mind fills with thoughts of _mermaids_ , of all things. 

The dark shape flits under his boat. There is tense silence for just a moment before the boat _jolts_ as something thuds into it from below. Martin scrambles to stay steady, already sweating with fear as another thump sends the boat rocking dangerously. He thinks of mermaids dragging besotted sailors to their early graves and against his own better judgement, he peers over the edge, trying to catch a glance of the culprit.

He sees a seal. 

And then his boat capsizes. 

He has one, shocked moment of floating, and then the rush of water fills his ears with the panic. The cold pierces into him like lances through his heart, threatening to lock his limbs and drag him down into the depths. 

He struggles to get his arms and legs moving, to push toward the surface; he wasn't so lucky to get a lungful of air before submerging, and his vision starts to fray at the edges. But even with his life jacket, no matter how hard he kicks out, he can't seem to make any progress for the twinkling sunlight dappling the waves above. 

It's because the seal has an iron tight grip on his leg, its teeth set into his flesh and its tongue lapping at his blood. Martin just barely holds back his scream as the pain hits him suddenly. He tries to kick the thing with his other foot, but it dodges or he misses, he can’t tell--the cold is freezing his panicked brain and the pain throbs in a frantic heartbeat and between the two he can’t concentrate. 

He meets the eye of the creature determined to be his end, and finds the otherworldly gold reflected back at him strangely beautiful; soothing. Lacking even a shred of malice, as it slowly drags him away from the light. 

Something glints in the water in front of him, sinking alongside him like a loyal companion. 

He realizes what it is with a last jolt of adrenaline. His hands lurch forward for it, and close into fists in a last burst of desperate energy, Martin finds the grip of the metal knuckles heavy in his palm, and twists down to punch the seal as hard as he can, finally letting the last of his air bubble past his lips in a scream as the move drags sharp teeth deeper. 

The effect is instantaneous. 

He is released. But before he can fight to the surface, the water around him _vibrates_ with a scream that is not his own, agonized in its surprise. 

It’s too clear, too _human_. Martin has heard of foxes or bobcat calls sounding like human women screaming, but not _seals_. The noise is furious, it’s pained, and it rattles Martin to the bone and as he finally breaches the surface and gasps in air, he prays to whatever god might be listening to _never_ hear it again.

He's noticed by a local fisher some time later, alternating between staring down into the depths for a return of his attacker, and clumsily trying to set his boat the right way up, and in that moment, he’s never been more grateful for life preservers. The woman kindly tows him back to shore, where he finds his captain and recounts his story of near drowning stammering and only a touch delusional with pain as he's patched up.

"Is that so?" the captain says. Martin nods, and does not catch the way his eyes sharpen with intense interest. 

"You'll have to show me where it happened." Lukas continues, a demand so softly worded Martin almost takes it as a lighthearted attempt at a joke. The man seemed to have a way with words; they always came out gentle and unassuming, and it doesn’t help that he expels an air of good natured companionship, like you could settle down for a good drink with him and drop your soul into his hands, just like that, lulling you into a false sense of security. 

"What--I mean, _why?_ " Martin sputters, aghast.

"I'd just like to see this would-be drowner of my crew, if you get my meaning." 

Martin does not. But with a start, he glances around and sees the deck alive with activity--when had _that_ happened? Boxes being moved to and fro, nets stretched out and fitted to hooks. _Harpoon guns_ now being lovingly cleaned and tended to by the faceless crew members. He starts to get a rather colorful idea of Lukas’ meaning.

"We're just delivering cargo and fish, right?" Martin... _asks?_ He isn't sure himself, but his boss smiles softly. 

"Of course, this is a well established vessel, Martin." he replies, with a chuckle that rattles around Martin’s ocean soaked brain and a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. 

Martin eyes the harpoon guns doubtfully, "Right."


	2. OSCAR, OSCAR, OSCAR

Lukas remains shifty for the next few days, reluctant to leave the coast. His keen eyes scan the waters for something, this rare shred of interest acting like kindling for his enthusiasm and he spends hours on his flip phone, bickering softly with someone on the other end--though how he gets service on the thing, Martin doesn’t know. 

He’s downstairs when the commotion begins again in earnest. Condemning himself to a quiet day out of sight and out of mind among the bunks, all empty besides his own. 

Martin hears the crash, then several shouts--gleeful. He scrambles to get himself up, wincing as his ankle shoots dulled pain up his leg. It’s healing fine, barely that deep, honestly. 

The sun smacks him in the face in tandem with the wind, whipping his hair into a frenzy as he pulls himself up the last stair, feeling vaguely winded for such a short journey. 

There are more people above deck then Martin has ever seen, and it quickly becomes abundantly clear as to why.

The animal in the nets looks wrong; it snarls and snaps at all that try to get close, until one of the deck boys--a unremarkable man with a face Martin unsurprisingly doesn’t recognize--hits it hard across the head with a wooden bat and it falls limp, but still defiantly awake. 

It looks like a seal, but there are...irregularities. 

The body is just a little too long; its limbs are agile, the teeth are huge, most of all is the skin, it's all wrong. The patterns don't match any species' Martin has ever read about, and every time he looks away, it seems to _change,_ a constant slow swirling, blinking design with no sense or explanation _._

It's also bleeding; whether from a graze with the harpoon guns or just from thrashing in the net, he can’t tell. One of its back flippers is shredded near clean through, oozing almost ichorous blood onto the stark white deck.

Martin is caught by its eyes--while almost rolled up back into its head, are unlike any seal eyes he's ever seen-- _wait,_ no, they aren’t. It hits him suddenly, he’s seen them before. 

They sparkle _golden_ and gleam with raw intelligence. 

“Is this our culprit, Martin?” Lukas asks, appearing over Martin’s shoulder, laying a strangely cold hand on his shoulder. 

He backs up a little, and Lukas lords over the fallen creature like a morbid king, coat draped out behind him like a sinister cape, threatening to dip into the rapidly pooling blood.

Martin gulps, locking eyes with the seal; wide and focused despite the blow to the head. They don’t seem to plead to him, there is no call for mercy, just a quiet sort of intrigue. Martin's next words could be a death sentence, he knows it. The crew are itching for it, their greed salting the air, but still they wait on Lukas’s command, who waits on _Martin_. 

“No.” he says, as clearly as he can. “the pelt is the wrong color.”

He doesn’t know why he says it. It could just be kindness; poor, doting, _caring Martin,_ who cares too much about people who wouldn’t even blink to use and defile him, before leaving him in the dirt. It could be pity, it could have been some misguided fearful respect for the thing. He doesn’t know. 

He just knows he sees something in those eyes, and it looks a little like him. 

“Hm.” Lukas contemplates carefully, “In the future, I would prefer you didn’t lie to me.”

Lukas waves an arm, and the creature explodes with movement; thrashing and snapping as the deck hands manhandle it into another net. 

“What are you doing?” Martin shouts, watching in horror as the seal rips a chunk of flesh from one of the men in its fervor, leaving a gaping hole in the side of his leg and dragging an unholy shriek from the man as he crumples.

“Nothing to worry yourself over, Martin.” Lukas says calmly, as the deckhand screams and screams until he can draw air in no longer and falls unconscious. His blood mixed with the seal’s. 

\--

Martin’s ears still ring, as he lays in his bunk. His thoughts run faster then his mind can keep up with, threaded keenly through with an underlying _guilt_ ; that he feels no pity for the man the seal wounded, that he felt the need to protect the thing that tried to kill him. That he failed even that. 

_Unless..._ his mind murmurs treacherously, a spark of a thought growing into an idea. He shoves it back down; _stupid_ and _risky_ , until his courage wins out against his nerves, and he swings out of bed, creeping on socked tiptoes down the hull corridors. Down in the belly of the ship the cold bites at his skin, his breath puffs out in little clouds of fog, gathering in the air around him. 

It doesn’t take clever thinking to find where Lukas is keeping the creature, the door is unlocked and ajar, and it lets the whispers of a one sided conversation sneak out, along with the rough, snarling breaths of the seal.

Martin crouches by the door, looking around wildly for anyone to call him out of hiding, to stop him. But the corridors are empty as usual, and he finds a spot tucked under the stairs that lets him see clearly into the room. 

He can see the tall silhouette of his captain, turned away from him, and off to the side there’s the seal, struggling in a basin of some sorts, held in place by heavy restraints.

“...I wish you would just take that thing off already, I really don’t want to have to rip it from you myself and I’m sure _neither_ of us want _that_ mess.” Lukas implores, as if he expects a response.

He gazes down upon the bloodied creature with an air of detached disgust, even as it pulls harshly against its bonds, howling out one of those ear splitting screams that Martin had only heard underwater--here in the cold air it _pierces_ his mind, and drags every terrible, bone tearing, painful feeling Martin has ever felt in his miserable life to the surface and he can’t help scrambling backwards, digging his fingers into his ears in the vain hope to drown the sound out. 

When he squints up again, he’s shocked to find Lukas still standing there, wholly unaffected. 

The creature slumps back, breathing hard. Probably feeling just as surprised as Martin is.

There’s a heavy pause, in which Lukas waits for _something_. Then, when nothing happens; “Fine, I'll let you think about it a little while longer, but I won't wait forever, Archivist, and I'm sure Elias has been missing you.”

He slowly makes his way up the stairs, shutting the door behind him, and Martin holds his breath long after he passes.

Martin doesn’t move. 

The gears in his head turn and turn for hours after Lukas disappears. He knows what he has to do--well, he doesn’t have to do anything, but it’s the right thing to do-- _too kind, too caring_ \--and Martin isn’t going to stand by and let Lukas _skin_ an animal alive. 

It isn't as simple as pushing the creature off the side of the ship, there aren’t windows big enough for that, with it being held in the lower deck. So if Martin wants even the slightest chance of not getting immediately caught, he has to wait for night. 

And wait he does, cramped in his hiding spot until the ship quiets down, his bones and muscles scream and his stomach rumbles, but he does not falter. Faintly, he wonders if anyone was even noticing his absence. He doubts it. 

The light above him shifts through the stair-boards, with agonizing slowness. From warm and bright sunlight, to cold and blue, as the moon takes its place to shine in the sky. It takes a moment to convince himself to move, and several more moments to steady his heart enough to quietly open the door. 

The creature jolts as he scuttles into the room, and its stare is filled with unfathomable fear and sadness as he approaches. The brand of the metal knuckles unmistakable against its brilliant grey skin, turning it red raw and sickening green where infection sets in.

"Please don't scream." Martin whispers, despite the part of his brain telling him how absurd he is negotiating with a seal. 

But it isn’t just a seal, is it. 

The creature thrashes when he draws closer, letting out a growl that works its way through Martin and reverberates down the hall behind him. He holds his breath, waiting for someone to notice, to wake and check for signs of foul play. But there's nothing, just the faint sound of pipes settling and the boat creaking.

"I'm going to help you, just--don't move, I'll get you out of here." Martin tries again, staring imploringly into those sharp, golden eyes. He is, unfortunately, hyper aware of the thing's teeth, and the damage they could quite easily inflict as he edges near.

Martin had come completely unprepared for his mutinous task, but thankfully, the room isn’t barren of tools. He sets about laying down rope, then a towel, and finally he starts to cut at the bonds holding the creature in the basin using a pair of wire cutters and tries not to think of why they were in the room in the first place. 

He hesitates for a brief second as he brings the tool close to the creature, but it lays there, deathly still. Its eyes never once leave his face. 

His rapidly forming plan is to roll the seal onto the blanket, then wrap it in the ropes and somehow haul the thing all the way up to the deck and release it back in the ocean. It sounded _much_ easier a second ago, but as the first heave out of the basin only moves the seal the barest inch forward he starts to have doubts. The creature is surprisingly heavy for its lithe form. 

"Oh god, what am I doing?" Martin moans, giving another shove that just has the seal chattering darkly. 

The creature shifts, and a noise akin to a long suffering sigh rushes out of its open maw. 

Then its wiggling more, now free from the confines holding it still. 

“Shh! You’re going to wake someone up," Martin hisses, horrified as it continues to move, the shakes turning into convulsing shudders. 

Then its _skin_ peels, like a snake shedding its dead husk after a molt. It falls away down dark shoulders, releasing a mess of long, inky black hair. Martin stares until his vision swims painfully--dumbfounded--as the seal seamlessly becomes a person--a very _naked_ person. 

They stare at each other; Martin gaping, a blush furiously working to turn his face a blotchy mess despite his best efforts. The stranger's gaze is piercing; searching for something indescribable in the heart of Martin's soul. They have golden eyes.

Whatever it finds must suffice, because they extend a timid hand. Waiting.

Martin startles, then leaps to action.

"Right!" He chokes, even as he grasps that damp hand in his own. It's not scaly or cold, surprisingly warm really. He tugs experimentally and the person-once-seal rises on unsteady legs. They're _tall_ , Martin notes, dumbly. "that uh, that helps!" 

The person nods.

Martin fusses for a moment, wrapping the abandoned towel around the stranger's body alongside the seal skin, to their own quiet amusement. He wants to bandage the stranger’s face, because the wound looks so much worse now in stark relief against their dark skin, and maybe he shouldn’t feel guilty for defending himself from the creature that had been _trying to drown him_ , but he does. 

He pulls them forward a little more instead, wincing as the stranger stumbles, falling into a limp. A quick glance down confirms that the injury done to the flipper had transferred graciously over to their foot, looking equally gruesome to the wound on their face. But there isn’t time to deal with either; the morning light would be peeking over the horizon soon, raising the slumbering crew and captain from sleep, and they needed every bit of darkness they could get to pull this stunt off.

He presses a finger to his lips, praying that the gesture was universal enough that they would know to stay silent, then drapes their arm across his shoulders and begins the painfully slow trek back onto the main deck of the ship, leaving a dark smear of blood as they go.

The strange person gasps loudly at the first shocking hit of the cold night air, turning into a raspy, yet pleased hum that Martin feels more then hears pressed so closely to their side. They try to move faster, as if drawn toward the sea, and well, maybe they are, what does Martin know about a shapeshifting seal person?

They pause at the edge of the ship, drinking in the sight of the open ocean for as far as the eye can see like a starving man. Then their gaze flits to Martin, searching. The worn lines of their face stitch together, lips parted as if about to speak. 

The hand he still clutches squeezes his by a fraction and he swears he feels the tiniest of tugs forward, toward the railings, and Martin lets go without thinking. 

The stranger’s face steels over. 

"Do you have a name-?" Martin tries to ask, but the person wraps the skins tighter around themself, dropping the towel as they leap off from the railing, and into the softly churning waters below. 

Martin waits for them to surface. Minutes stretch and when the cold settles in he finally steps away from the railing, trying to deny his disappointment. 

He dreams fitfully, of tall strangers and warm hands. 

\-- 

He manages to avoid detection for all of one day. 

After the general outcry of losing the seal dies down, the crew turn their efforts toward hunting down the mutineer with rigor. He tries not to find it ironic that he might finally have the attention of his fellows and he couldn’t want to avoid it more then now.

Martin tries his best, he was good pretending to be a nobody, someone to overlook. But that just made everything feel worse; the ship was strange and big, and he was _utterly_ and _absolutely alone._

Lukas finds him on the main deck, scrubbing the remnants of dried blood from the white floor where it trails from the stairs to the edge of the ship. The same edge he had watched the seal person jump from not a night before. He ignores the gathering fog, and the cold that draws shivers down his spine. 

Slowly, overhead snow begins to fall.

Martin tenses under his captain’s gaze, and redoubles his efforts, until the froth of foam suds turn pink and coat his hands. 

“Martin...you aren’t in trouble--” _yet_ “--but you really shouldn’t have done that.”

“Why?” Martin asks, he drops the brush as he scrambles to his feet, grasping upon that shy defiance like a lifeline. “So I should have just, what? Stood by and let you _skin_ the poor thing?”

“Did it try to talk with you?” Lukas asks, with something like pity in his voice. “I must warn you, creatures of its ilk are rarely trustworthy, though I really shouldn’t have to remind you after what it did to your leg.”

Lukas takes a step toward Martin. A kind, yet sad look returning to his features. Martin takes an involuntary step back.

“I don’t even understand what _it_ _is!_ I don’t know what’s going on--”

His footing catches on the slippery mess below him, and suddenly the world goes sideways as he hurtles from the deck.

If he were a clever man, he would have braced for the impact of cold, held his breath as the sea rushed to meet him as he fell. As it stands, he wasn't a clever man nor even a _lucky_ one, as his head hits unforgiving ice with a crack and all he knows before darkness is the numb pain and crooning song of waves engulfing him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thats it for this week, see you guys tuesday :-)


	3. ABSENT WITH(OUT) INTENT TO LEAVE

Martin wakes slowly, and with an acute knowledge that every bone in his body _hurt_ , but that he _wasn’t_ dead at the bottom of the unforgiving ocean. 

“Um?” he tries, his tongue like sandpaper in his mouth, raising up onto his forearms to survey his surroundings. 

To his puzzlement, he finds himself laying atop a huge bed laiden in furs and skins that take up the better part of a room he’s never seen before. It’s incredibly warm and he feels vaguely sticky and gross. His head aches the most, he can feel what he hopes are bandages sticking to his head, damp with sweat. The room sways gently back and forth--the rocking doing absolutely no favors to the pulsing pain in his head--and he’s pretty sure he’s on a boat.

He can also see the door in the farthest corner, and the stranger sitting conveniently between him and it.

The stranger is clothed this time, which Martin is immensely grateful for. 

Without the worry of being caught-- _that ship had gone and sailed right off the edge of a cliff_ \--Martin stares. 

They’re thin, gangly arms twisted in an uncomfortable position to keep them upright. Their skin is dark and lovingly laced with scars; most look to be from fishing lines, but some run much deeper and deadlier; there’s a slash across their throat, and further up Martin’s gift still sits angrily, looking more like a burn then a scab. Even in their battered, world-worn state, there’s an air of beauty to them; the tangles of dark brown hair soften their features, and their eyes are still as captivating as they had been on the deck of the Tundra. 

They sit like a gargoyle in their chair, studying Martin as one might study a particularly fatty piece of meat, poised as if to swoop in and strike. His ankle twinges with worry at the thought. 

But he doesn’t feel like he’s about to be eaten, why go to all the trouble of patching him up just to kill him? 

“You aren’t going to eat me, are you?” he asks, just to be sure, though his words are such a slurred jumble he’s not sure if the point got across or not. 

The stranger continues staring, though it shifts from razor sharp scrutiny to mild confusion. They shake their head after a delay.

“Right, of course.” Martin nods, mainly to himself. “Can’t be that simple can it, talking to a mermaid.”

“I am _not_ a mermaid.” 

Martin _jumps_. That _voice_ \--absolutely scathing but low and enticing, and despite the fact its tone suggests Martin might be the biggest idiot to ever walk the earth, he is entranced instantly. 

“You _can_ talk!” he exclaims stupidly, making them both flinch at the sudden noise. 

The stranger fixes him with a look that screams _well yes, of course I can_. 

“Mermaids nothing more then a mockery of truth. Naked humanoids somehow surviving the frigid waters just to seduce fishermen.” The stranger continues, and Martin’s obviously struck a nerve because they scowl, nose wrinkling and lip pulling back in disgust, revealing a peek of shining, yet unusually sharp teeth. “A human conceived fantasy, obviously.”

Martin politely waits for them to go on, but they don’t say another word after that. 

“Right! Of course, how silly of me to confuse mermaids with...whatever you are.” Martin agrees amicably, feeling more and more like he might be dreaming or dead.

“ **Right.** ” they mimic--and it’s _exactly_ Martin’s voice coming from their mouth, like hearing a recorder’s playback.

“Oh what the--how did you do that--? You know what, it’s _fine._ ” Martin looks away, though he feels the intense glare of the stranger trained directly on him regardless, and wheezes a breath between his teeth. His head swims and now he’s not sure if it's from the sway of the boat or not. 

“Rest.” the stranger says. It’s a demand, and one he helplessly gives in to. 

\--

The next time he rouses, the pain has settled into the back of his mind comfortably, changing from it’s droning pulse to a dull hum. Martin turns his head to the side and finds the stranger still in the chair, looking for all the world like they hadn’t moved an inch since he passed out, even though Martin can see out the door’s tiny porthole window and the sky is much darker now. He wonders if it’s less appropriate to feel smitten instead of creeped out over being watched over while he sleeps.

He does start to lean more toward creeped out when the creature’s eyes continue to stare, deadeyed, and only when Martin tries to stand do they blink, their whole body flinching with it. 

“Pain?” they ask as way of greeting, and Martin nods hesitantly. 

The stranger skitters off without a word, only pausing to stumble and hiss, their gait turning into a limp as they disappear through the door behind them. For a brief second Martin can see out at the calm open ocean, moonlight reflecting off its dancing waves. Then it shuts with a soft snap, and he’s left with his thoughts.

_Good god, what is he doing?_

He was definitely sacked. 

He would have to go home now, he would have to go through the grueling process of finding another job, and he would have to _tell his mother--_

Martin sags back into his makeshift bed, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, though not from pain. He rubs his face roughly, willing himself to stay together. There were more pressing matters at hand; he didn’t know where he was, he was definitely hurt, and he had inexplicably been saved by some sort of seal monster person. 

He almost wants to laugh at the absurdity, but he holds back. He thinks he might just start sobbing as well, which wouldn’t be ideal.

The stranger returns--and weirdly, knocks on the door before entering. They peer in hesitantly when Martin awkwardly invites them into what he assumes is their own home, clutching a small first aid kit that looks almost a decade old. Their face remains a very stoic mask of indifferent annoyance as they meticulously set every single item out of the box and onto the floor; handing Martin a bottle of mild pain killers that were only _a little_ bit out of date. 

Martin all but jumps out of his skin when the stranger taps him on the leg, wordlessly urging him to uncover it so they could rewrap the old bandages. He tries not to think about them applying bandages, dutifully nursing his unresponsive body back to life while he was out. 

It is an odd sensation, to have the person who hurt you in the first place tend to the wounds they inflicted with such care. 

"You saved me." Martin says slowly, transfixed by the delicate movements of their hands, despite the gnarled and scarred skin of one of their palms-- _what has life done to you?_

"I did." the stranger replies without pause, tightening the gauze just so, the brush of their fingers ghosting the skin of Martin’s leg with every other move and he can occasionally feel the blunt edges of claws. Once again, he tries not to think about it. 

"And before that you tried to drown me." 

"...I did." and they have the decency to look a little ashamed. 

"So...what changed?" Martin asks, and it might not be the best thing to question, but he can’t help himself. 

The stranger stumbles slightly, confusion muddies their sharp features. This close to them, he spies a glint of gold amongst the greys and blacks of their hair, and becomes instantaneously fixated by the little strip of metal adorning their ear, singular and strangely out of place. 

"I...I don't know." the stranger says, almost forlorn.

Martin nods, as if he understands--he doesn’t, but he also doesn’t have anything to follow that up with, so the silence between them stretches until the discomfort is nearly unbearable. 

"You're still hurt," Martin points out, unnecessarily, "you really should bandage those--sorry for that by the way."

“You’re sorry for stopping me from--” they cut themself off awkwardly, then clear their throat pointedly. 

“Well, no--but it looks really painful?” 

“It's fine, I'll heal quick.” the stranger dismisses. 

Martin doesn’t hide his look of skepticism; the wound looks like a brand, like it had burned their skin on contact and broke and cracked the flesh, leaving spiderwebs of angry red, mixing with the black and blue bruises, and the tell tale green and yellow of infection. Frankly it looks as if the stranger was one step away from dying. 

“I’m _fine_.” the stranger reiterates, visibly tensing.

“Will you just put some antiseptic and a bandaid on it, please?” Martin asks, and does not beg, thank you very much. “Here, I’ll even do it for you.”

Martin gestures to the first aid kid but the stranger freezes up, their jaw clenched tightly. He flinches as their clawed fingertips catch slightly on his skin, and they jerk away, balling their hands into fists. 

“I think you’ve done _enough_.” they snap, “As I said, I’m quite alright.”

Martin manages a brittle smile, but their words are cutting, barbed to rend and hurt. He doesn’t speak again until the stranger finishes with his leg, folding it back under himself as soon as they move away, wishing for all the world to roll over and vanish. The stranger is watching him, he can feel it, but he doesn’t deign them with the satisfaction of checking.

Martin hears them fumbling with their words for a moment, before they give up and start striding for the door again. 

“I’m Martin, by the way.” Martin says, fighting down his embarrassment he turns to look--and low and behold, the stranger stares blankly back at him. “Right.” they say, and without giving their own name in return, they flee from the room, snapping the door closed behind them. 

\--

After several hours of excruciating loneliness, he manages to force himself to his feet. 

He’s been left to his own devices, which he’s used to but he feels more then a little out of place in this stranger’s home, even if that home was a boat. He wanders up onto the tiny deck briefly, casting a disinterested look at the yawning, open ocean that gives nothing about his location away. Though the fresh air feels nice enough. 

The boathouse isn’t terribly small, but after weeks on the Tundra, Martin feels a little stifled. There’s room to walk around, and even what appeared to be another small room at the bow of the ship; through one of the large windows Martin can see a small, makedo kitchenette and a table, and there’s a person sitting in one of the chairs, reading quietly under a tiny lamp with a foot resting against the wheel of the boat. 

They don’t seem to notice Martin’s awkward attempts to draw their attention, so he gives up, feeling stupid. 

He returns to the cabin after the wind picks up and sends chills across his spine, unsure what to do with himself. It’s simple to fall back into old habits--almost comforting to clean up the haphazard piles of clothes and fuzzy furs and pelts littering the floor; he stacks the chipped and dirty plates atop the tiny table crammed in the corner, and puts in a valiant, yet futile effort to make the bed. 

He stops when he unearths a strange looking pelt, almost half hidden under the bed. He hesitates to place it among the mess making up the bed sheets; this one stands out, the fur patterns running along it are beautiful, and it feels...like it’s calling to him. It’s definitely too fine to be left on the floor, he decides, in the small room it was bound to get walked on. 

He reaches down, and his fingers brush the soft surface before he is violently yanked away. 

" _Don't fucking touch that_." is growled into his ear, and what feels like many, _many_ knives are pressed into his arm where it's held in a death grip. 

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! Please, I was just--" Martin yelps, pure terror running down his spine.

"Trying to steal it."

" _What?_ No!" 

His attacker makes a noise, like they’re unconvinced. 

“I swear I wasn’t going to do anything, I’m sorry!” Martin pleads, as the grip tightens threateningly.

He's released with a shove, and he lands gracelessly on the other side of the small room, glancing back frantically to get a look at his attacker.

It's a woman. Tall, her hair buzzed short and slick to her head. She appears to be scarred twice over and where the skin isn't scarred it's covered in freckles and faded black ink, spider webbing tattoos that stretch from one muscled arm to the other. She has the same eyes as the other creature, though hers’ are a deep brown, lanced through with red. She is absolutely terrifying. 

"Jon might have taken a shine to you but don't think that gives you the right to snoop through his things." the woman snaps--and Martin notices, even through his panic, that she sports a pelt under her own arm, wet with salt water. "You're still one of the Tundra in my eyes."

She gathers the leathery pelt in her arms, taking such gentle care with it she could have been a different person for all Martin knew. though he can't help but stare at her sharp fingers, dark and clawed. His arm aches and he holds it gingerly.

"I'm sorry?" Martin tries again, as if saying it with a different inflection would help plead his case. 

The woman snorts humorously, and only once she’s finished cramming the skins into a cupboard does she round on Martin once again, her expression lessens in intensity somewhat--she is still terrifying. 

"I didn't get your name." she says. 

"Oh! I um, I'm Martin, Blackwood." he stutters, "Martin Blackwood." 

" _Martin._ Hm." she rolls his name on her tongue, as if testing its feel, foreign in her mouth. "Daisy." 

"Is that...your...name?" he asks and she nods once. 

Martin is starting to see a trend among his apparent rescuers. 

“The other one’s Jon then, the uh, mean one?”

Another nod, though it’s followed by; “He said you saved him.” 

Her curious eyes pin him in place, predator to prey. He feels sweat slide gently down his neck as he realizes she’s quietly circled him to block the only escape, though she appears completely at ease. 

"Oh well, it was uhm, mutual saving, I suppose. An eye for an eye and all that." 

Daisy shoots him a quizzical look, "What?" 

"Hm-? Oh, nothing, just a saying." Martin cringes, his voice petering away pathetically. “Is it just the two of you?” he tries again, eyeing her with curiosity; she looks nothing like Jon, but that couldn’t entirely rule out siblings-- _or they could be together, there’s only one bed._ He tries to ignore that thought. 

“Yes, this is my boat--the Safehouse.” Daisy says with a little flourish to the cabin around them. He tries very hard to hold back his flinch, and sees the corner of her mouth tick upwards minutely in a snarl.

“Oh, well thanks for letting me stay.” Martin says, aiming for polite friendliness. 

Daisy nods, “We aren’t complete monsters. Can’t go throwing someone overboard while they’re asleep, it’s impolite.”

Martin stares, then realizes that was a _joke_ and barks a forced laugh.

“Hungry?” she asks, “Jon’s cooking, promise it’s not poisoned.”

That absolutely sounds like something someone would say before they poisoned him, but Martin’s mouth starts to water at the prospect of food and he nods eagerly, “Food would be great.”

The snarl on Daisy’s lips grows and with a horrified start, Martin realizes it’s not an intimidating grimace at all, but a _smile_. A barely there crook to the corner of her mouth that sits on her face as if unfamiliar with the action. 

She takes a breath, and steps out of the way and beckons him out of the cabin, shutting the door behind him--though she pauses, and hands Martin a jacket to throw on over his own dirty shirt.

Martin drags his feet as he heads back out to the deck; he can see Jon hovering over the kitchenette, one hand gently stirring a pot of rice and the other tracing the words written on multiple sticky notes tacked upon the wall in front of him. 

He settles himself into one of the two chairs, and tries his best to not take up space and shamelessly stares at Jon's back as he cooks; his eyes drawn to the way his hair sways, now put up into a loose bun at the back of his head. 

“I suspect you have questions,” Jon says loudly without turning around, thoroughly startling Martin from his reprieve. “you may as well ask them, get it over with.”

“What are you?” Martin asks immediately, and only dies a little bit inside after saying it.

Jon shoots him a glare from over his shoulder. Even in this nearly human form, his gaze is still just as piercing and haughty, like he was seeing past skin and flesh and bone, straight into the core of him and finding Martin _lacking_. 

“Sealfolk, selkies…‘ _mermaids’_ , whatever word picks your fancy--frankly, I don't care.” Jon sniffs, setting the pot of steaming rice on the table in front of Martin before returning to the stove top. 

“I don't actually know what those are,” Martin says slowly. 

Jon actually swings around to face him fully, wearing an expression of indignant confusion. 

“A sailor that doesn’t understand the concept of a selkie,” he says, and something about his tone makes Martin feel like he’s laughing at him. “well, that explains a lot.”

Martin bristles slightly, “What do you mean by that?”

“It’s not important.” Jon dismisses, and from the harsh clench of his jaw, that line of questioning is over. 

“How long was I out for?” Martin asks instead.

“A couple days. It worked out, gave us a lot of time to get far, far away from Peter and his damn ship.” Jon shrugs, then startles at Martin’s horrified expression. “You weren’t _dying_.”

Daisy falls into the other chair across from Martin suddenly, quiet as a ghost. She starts picking at the too hot rice, wincing until Jon notices and bats her hands away. The room slowly starts to fill with the scent of spices; fat and butter, the pop and crack of skin sizzling and the heavy aroma of fish.

“You eat that cooked?” Martin asks. 

This time the glare is even more prominent, though Daisy lets out a short bark of surprised laughter. Martin feels like he’s said something _rude_ and promptly goes red.

“No, but _you_ do.” Jon says slowly, pointedly. Flipping the fish with one hooked claw, completely forgoing the tongs sitting to his left. “Do you usually ask such terribly pointless questions or is it a side effect from almost bludgeoning yourself to death?”

“Well, pardon me for falling off a ship the wrong way.” Martin grumbles under his breath. 

“You are pardoned.” Jon snaps back. When he’s met with silence, he turns around with a raised eyebrow, “You’re taking this all remarkably well.”

“Eh, I’ve never been very skeptical of the strange, supernatural business and really, after all that time with the Tundra it just seems more believable?” Martin says with a sigh, feeling very tired. 

"The supernatural isn't real." Jon says firmly.

Martin waits patiently for a punchline. It doesn’t come.

"Wait, _what?_ " He stumbles, "but you're--"

“Oh god, this again, Jon--?” Daisy groans.

"--Just something that's slipped the grasp of modern science, that's all." Jon returns moodily, as if he's very used to reciting these lines. "The strange is _always_ explainable, we aren't a myth come to life." 

"Don't bother with him, you won't get anywhere." Daisy says into her cup, as Martin continues to stare at him with a flabbergasted expression. 

"Alright, fine. Then do you have one of those scientific explanations for whatever was going on with that ship-? The Tundra, I mean. I hit my head on _ice!_ There wasn't any ice before." Martin asks, maybe a tad smug when Jon looks away.

“You’re lucky you got to _leave_ the Tundra.” Daisy mutters, and there’s something in her voice, the tone--something angry and dark and _afraid_ \--that whispers of danger, hidden under the surface; a dark shape under the boat. 

“...Why’s that?” Martin asks, a sinking feeling of dread creeping up on him. 

“We--Daisy and I--tail the Tundra from time to time,” Jon says reluctantly, “on the off chance we can stop some sorry fool from stepping aboard _or_ getting dragged aboard.”

Martin’s blood runs cold. “What happens to them if they do?”

“Don’t really know--human trafficking most likely. We've never been able to stop it happening, until now.” Jon looks at Martin closely, “I didn’t think you _could_ leave, honestly.”

“And the ones that don’t end up on the boat, the ones you save, are they alright?”

Something passes between Daisy and Jon then; they share a quick glance, a brief moment of intense and totally silent communication so fast it’s almost lost to Martin. 

Jon sets two plates in front of them, then leans against the counter, keeping his injured foot up off the floor. 

“They disappear if we don’t interfere. They aren’t missed, usually they’re picked on purpose; people that have no one to leave behind, what’s one more missing sailor or drowned poet?” Daisy says, carefully stepping over Martin’s question. She frowns at Jon, rising from her seat, and nudges him silently until he drops into her chair, shooting her a grateful smile. 

Martin studies his fork, suddenly very interested in the microscopic scrapes to the silver. 

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re a _writer_.” Jon says, with the same amount of contempt he might reserve for "murderer". 

“Poet, actually.” Martin grimaces, “In my free time.”

Jon mutters something under his breath, looking for all the world wholly like he swallowed a lemon. Beside him, Daisy laughs again, a harsh noise that grates on his ears. But under all of it’s barbs, there is warmth. 

Settled around a table with strangers and quite literally lost at sea, it’s the first time in a very long time that Martin has felt something akin to happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im not happy with this chapter but im gonna finally give up and leave it. 
> 
> fun fact: the gold earring jon sports is a reference to a norse myth in which people would bring gold to sea with them in case they died and were left empty handed in ran's realm of the dead. i couldnt quite find a way to bring that up so its just a little easter egg.
> 
> and fun fact number 2: jon is initially referred to with neutral pronouns bc i hc him as nonbinary and martin didn't know, only once daisy addressed him with the correct pronouns did it switch over.


	4. CONTACT

It doesn’t take long to confirm the less then normal nature of his unnatural hosts. Even with their haughty demeanors--Jon, avoidant and snappy, for reasons unknown. Daisy is similar, but she spends most of her time away from the boat in favor of hunting down fish in the depths. Her form nothing more then a brief shot of darkness in the water, lurking and titanic. A gleam of her eyes, wide jaws; hunting, hunting-- _found._

Their conversations are stilted at best. 

“Is this boat really meant to be out on the ocean like this? I mean, you’re sure we’re not going to wreck?” Martin asks her, as the Safehouse tilts to and fro in a dangerous cradle rock; the sky is angry and dark, a gaping wound crying its agony down upon them. He feels like he’s in a house made of twigs, and the weatherman just reported a record breaking tornado heading directly their way. 

Daisy's eyes shine and reflect in the brief lightning flashes.

The inhuman nature of her--and Jon, does not go unnoticed. He would have to be more then a little willfully ignorant to escape it. There is the obvious, their shifting bodies, turning from person to creature at the drop of a pin. A process that Martin can never quite reconcile with his mind, as if his own brain was unwilling to accept what it was witnessing. And there are the claws, the _teeth_. 

There is Daisy, who doesn’t look perturbed or nervous as the Safehouse shudders around her. Her eyelids droop, as if the thunder were a lullaby being sung for her, and her alone.

“We can’t wreck.” she murmurs, and her voice should be lost on the wind, but Martin can clearly hear the _conviction_ , assurity. “The sea won’t let us.”

She scares him, though he'd never admit it aloud. He still has the knuckles. Sometimes he thinks about throwing them into the ocean, but they sit in his pocket, weighing him down with their presence. He clenches them in his fist now, and waits out the storm.

\--

“We’re a couple days from the next safest port,” Jon says over his book the next morning, “we can drop you off there.”

Martin pauses, the leftovers from dinner half raised to his mouth, and he sets his fork back down. Something in his chest spasms, painfully. He doesn’t know what he expected, of course he was going to leave. He couldn’t hide away on the boat forever, life didn’t work that way. 

“Oh, right.” Martin says, after a far too noticeable delay. “Thanks.”

Jon nods, though he shoots Martin an odd look, and returns to his reading.

\--

And then there is the less obvious. Subtle differences.

They carry themselves like...like nothing Martin has ever seen before. It’s graceful yet careless, a constant threat of tipping and spilling over the edge, like liquid filled to the brim. They walk along the edges of the boat like tightrope walkers, swaying just seconds from falling into the welcoming grasp of the ocean, as if always drawn to it. 

He can feel it in their voices, rich when they laugh--though that itself is rare. A power that lurks in their throats, twisting their words and timbre into something other then themselves. He’s heard them talk to each other at night, when they think he’s asleep, in voices that are not their own. Hushed and frantic, oftentimes arguments.

It’s _fascinating_. He has thousands of questions brimming in his mind.

Most of them are about Jon.

It’s the way he hides, dodges, denies. The uneasy way he stops using a stranger’s voice to speak when Martin is within earshot, keeps his claws tucked firmly in the pockets of his jacket. A tight, tense air of guilt follows Jon around like a comfortable friend.

Martin finds himself studying Jon's hands, when he can. 

He has long fingers, thin and spidery. There are the telltale nicks of scars long ago earned; strange little dotting marks that cover his skin, the more apparent spots where a fishing hook had once caught and dragged, leaving a shallow, yet uneven line from wrist to elbow. There is the melted skin of his palm, the mark that Jon hides so well, always balling his hand into a loose fist; keeping it figuratively and literally, close to his chest, as if protective. 

He wonders if it still hurts him, but Martin isn’t brave enough to ask. 

Jon on the other hand, has no such qualms when it comes to asking questions. 

“And you don’t remember any of the crew? Only Lukas?” Jon asks, perhaps for the hundredth time. His countless notebooks lie open and strewn across the table top, almost all of them are full of that neat handwriting Martin is coming to know as Jon's. He still half expects Jon to pull out a cork board complete with red strings and thumbtacks.

There's a strange information discrepancy between them; Jon can ramble on and on about the most obscure topics Martin has ever heard, but he blanks on things like movies, politics, and _tea_ , of all things.

Martin sighs. He’s keen for it; _information_ , they had been at this for a _while_ now. Jon drills him for questions, everything from the Tundra to Peter Lukas himself, and Martin answers back to the best of his ability--and they were getting nowhere. But he doesn’t complain, at least not loudly or in front of Jon. Because honestly, being the sole focus of Jon’s attention is a little addicting. 

“No, Jon, I still do not remember what the others looked like,” Martin huffs, and Jon's scowl deepens. It makes him feel like a failure, like he just isn’t trying hard enough. “I told you, they didn’t look like anything, it was like your eyes just...slid off them. I don’t think I ever talked to any of them either, they always stayed far away from me--god, I used to think they were just being _rude_.” 

He scrubs at his face, Lukas’ words echoing hollowly in his mind. His fingers are cold, and he flexes them out to stir some warmth back into them. 

Jon deflates, “Probably too far gone to help anyways.” 

“I dunno, you got me, didn’t you?” Martin says, then starts. “Wait--you can see me right? I’m not some faceless thing-I haven’t checked a mirror in ages--”

“Yes, Martin.” Jon snaps, then his tone softens minutely, “I can. I see you.”

“Oh.” Martin stops, smiles. “Good! That’s-that’s good.”

Jon smiles back before he seems to catch himself, blindingly, like the sun. Something in Martin’s throat catches and he stops breathing, _oh dear._

“Anyways,” Jon says quickly, “as I was saying, I only saw a little of the interior, could you go into more detail about--”

\--

Occasionally, on the days they wake without the constant ache of old wounds of body and mind, they sing. 

It’s an unusual sight, almost magical in nature. Martin isn’t even sure they’re aware they’re doing it when it starts. 

It begins with a hum--though whether it starts from Jon or Daisy he can never tell--and what follows rises into a low growl of noise, the beat of a hymn cracked with age, growing between them as they set about doing things as mundane as washing up. 

The lyrics change every time, flowing like liquid and shifting with the slightest tilt and pull of the waves around them. Between the erratic stomp of Daisy’s boot and the off kilter croon of Jon's voice, they do not sound like a euphony of song, like a choir of sailors singing to old gods for safe travels and good fishing, but it’s a near thing. 

And they look at ease, peaceful in the gentle melodies and twisting shanties they weave and it’s all Martin can do not to be swept away in its wake.

\--

He asks, in a rather bumbling, awkward, terrible way if they were married. Daisy laughs at him so hard she nearly inhales her breakfast and Jon has to thump her on the back a few times. 

It’s not his fault, really. They’re so quiet around each other, like they’re above needing words to communicate. A gentle brush of the shoulder and Daisy nods with understanding, flicking off the lights that torment Jon’s migraines. 

Likewise when it’s Daisy--manic with restless energy, Jon soothes her with an open palm rubbing soothing circles in the center of her back. They both reach and touch and hold so casually, intimate without fear--it’s clear they care deeply for each other. 

“Oh god no, we’d kill each other first.” Daisy says, once she can breathe again. She stands to dump her dishes in the sink. “In fact we nearly _did_ \--kill each other, mind you, when we first met. He tried to hunt in my space, the mopey idiot didn’t know anything about us, that only became apparent _after_ I beat the hell out of him, though.” 

She passes Jon on her way to sit back down, her hand comes up and gently passes under his chin; tracing the thin scar struck across his throat. 

Jon scowls at her when she settles across the table, looking indignantly red in the face, “I still maintain that was _not_ my fault, you are the only one I have ever met to put up borders like some kind of _dog_ marking their territory.”

“You’re lucky Basira stopped me, little man.” Daisy sneers.

“You went from killing each other...to living together.” Martin says, dumbfounded. 

Daisy shrugs, “It makes sense if you were there.”

\--

He watches them sleep. 

It’s beyond weird and creepy, and he’s already scheduled an appointment with his anxiety to beat himself up about it later. But now, in the warmth of the cabin, surrounded by soft breathing and comfort for just a little while longer, he watches. 

Daisy lays half burrowed in the furs, her face a tight knot of stress even in her slumber. She curls tightly next to Jon, her arm lays lightly over him, encompassing but not holding, protective with just the barest contact. Jon sprawls out where she’s pulled inward, his arm flung open and for one moment Martin is overcome with the temptation to lie down with them, the _need_ to press in close with his head pillowed by Jon’s strong arm makes his chest ache. 

But he’s already a weirdo for looking, and there isn’t a way in hell he could pull any of that off without waking the both of them, which is the last thing he wants, looking at their dark circles and stressed faces. So he shrinks in on himself, tucked close to the edge of the couch. The furs are warm but he feels chilled as he drifts from consciousness.

He stirs later in the night, brought out of his sleep by an aching cold that leeches away the warmth like a starving man sucking marrow from a bone. He shivers, and his breath shudders out of him in a frosty cloud. 

Martin looks around but he can’t see Jon or Daisy, or their bed, or even the edges of the room he fell asleep in. Which is impossible, given it’s small size. He reaches out an arm, goosebumps raising along with the hairs as gentle fog caresses his fingertips. He rises to his feet uncertainly.

“Jon?” he whispers, the words escape past his lips and freeze there in the air, fading into nothing. There is no reply. 

He takes several practiced steps forward, if he really was in the little bedroom on Daisy’s boat, then he should hit the bed, and hopefully wake one of them up in the process. 

He doesn’t. The fog simply rolls on, beckoning him further in. 

Martin tries to find his words again. Fear lingers at the corners of his mind, but it’s subdued; heavy and enveloping like the fog around him, yet not entirely hostile, nor unwelcome. Like a hug from a once lover. He wanders aimlessly, not even shocked or afraid of the seemingly endless expanse that now makes up his entire world. He finds he doesn’t feel much of anything, really. 

“Do you like it?” a voice asks, it echoes softly.

 _This is a dream,_ his mind supplies, so he answers, foolishly. “I...yes, it’s nice. Quiet.”

“I'm glad,” the voice does sound pleased, “why don’t you come stay for a while.”

He doesn’t even register that it wasn’t a request. He nods along, already in motion as if pushed along by the fog.

 _This is where you belong,_ it sings. 

His steps drag, catch, and he blinks, looks down. 

There’s nothing there. 

He tries to take another step, and he can feel something holding his wrist and pulls against it, almost _angry_ to be stopped, a flicker of emotion that is immediately snuffed out. He needs to keep going, he knows it as truth; _this is what he is meant to do_ , the world around him calls for it, demands it.

The hold doesn’t let up.

Martin yanks more forcefully, but his other arm is encircled in that same tight bond, anchoring him in place. Then everything _hurts_.

Martin shouts, his knees buckle underneath him. 

The fog vanishes with such dizzying quickness his head spins. The desaturated, low lighting pulls back as warm lamp light rushes to replace it. The slosh of the ocean outside is deafening, and Martin tries to concentrate on breathing but there’s someone in front of him shouting urgently and he can’t seem to get his eyes to focus on their worried face. 

“-- _artin!_ Martin, can you hear me?” Jon growls. It might just be Martin's confused senses, but he sounds genuinely frightened, not angry. 

The pain returns, and he cries out again. 

“ _Daisy, stop!_ ”

His vision blurs and settles, and he sees Daisy release her grip on his arm, where her claws had been gouging his flesh. She comes away with a growl, animalistic, falters--and all but bursts from the cabin suddenly, looking sick, letting the door slam into the wall, rocking on its hinges. 

“God damnit, _Martin_ , are you alright? _I’m_ \--something was happening, something was taking you and we couldn’t stop it.” Jon rambles uselessly, stripping off his shirt to press the fabric to Martin's bleeding arm.

“What happened?” Martin tries, but his voice comes out as a croak. He’s pulled closer--and is surprised to find he’s settled in Jon’s arms, his head resting in Jon’s palm. They must have moved him to the bed while he ‘slept’.

“I don't know--” Jon takes a deep breath, both his hands now cradling Martin’s head. His eyes are wide and terrified, “I could barely see you, it was like you were disappearing.”

Martin swallows, his mouth is full of sand. 

“I’m sorry.” he says, his traitorous voice cracks and breaks around his words. 

Jon shakes his head, his touch falls away slowly and Martin almost cries at the loss of it; the cold that rushes in to claim him immediately, a bitter numbness that rattles around in his head. He jerks his hand out, chasing after the warmth of Jon’s palms and barely stifles his pained whimper as the bloody mess across his forearm screams in protest. 

“Daisy hurt you, _shit_ \--Daisy.” Jon’s head snaps desperately toward the door, but she’s nowhere in sight.

Jon scrambles for the next few minutes, retrieving the now well used first aid kit and then he’s touching Martin again, his hands so very timid and regretful, his stitches neat and tidy. Martin bites his tongue until it bleeds, and doesn’t say a word through the pain. 

“She didn’t mean to-it was the only way--” Jon says, “--you weren’t responding and she thought it would bring you back, but-”

“Jon, what happened to me?” Martin interjects, like a broken record. 

He doesn’t let Jon pull away when he’s finished tying off the knot on his stitches, he snatches up his hand in a death grip. Jon flinches-- _he doesn’t pull away though, does he?_ \--and both of their palms are sweaty with fear but to Martin it’s grounding, a presence. 

“I don’t-- _know._ ” Jon sounds _frantic_ , his eyes are still wild and while Martin is wrestling his breathing back to something akin to normal, Jon's is shallow and quick. “It’s wrong, Martin. _It’s wrong_.” 

Martin nods along dumbly and doesn’t relax his hold on Jon's fingers. He can feel him trembling. The ache tightens in his chest, empty, _empty, empty_. 

Jon stiffens horribly as Martin pulls him into a hug, if it can even be described as such; Martin has one arm around his ribs, his head awkwardly shoved into Jon’s shoulder. He’s so warm where they’re pressed together, skin to skin contact, burning away the numb clutching at Martin's heart in a vice. Jon's arms come up, and they skate over Martin's back like a balm and for a moment he is _held_ , and he is _safe_. 

Then Jon scrambles out of his grasp, like he’s the one that's been _burned_ and doesn’t stop until he hits the wall behind him. His eyes are still glassy, but he isn’t breathing. Martin's pretty sure he isn’t either, the loss of contact has stripped him of every sense. 

“I-I’m sorry, Jon.” Martin stutters, his voice is hollow to his own ears, and he feels like he should be crying now, but no tears come. “I just-”

What? Wanted to comfort and be comforted? Did he really think that anyone would want to touch him? Not even his mother could stomach that duty with a thinly veiled disgust gracing her features. 

Jon shakes his head mutely, he picks up his jacket with shaking hands and stumbles to his feet like a dying man. He doesn’t look back as he takes off after Daisy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sure they're fine, see you next tuesday.


	5. MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY

Martin looks down at the neat piece of paper in his hand and reads the equally neat handwriting for the third time: _Ask for Georgie Barker--tell The Admiral I said hello and I love you please_ , and the following address. He sighs, crumples the paper into a ball, and returns it to his pocket. 

He feels akin to a newborn foal; staggering around off-balanced, nearly learning what the pavement tastes like several times before he gains his footing on a surface that doesn’t rock and roll beneath him. 

He winces at the loudness of the port town’s many crowds. It must be around noon, as it is a clambering place of noise. Neither Jon nor Daisy had come along with him, both of them had clammed up at the idea of setting foot ashore and refused to elaborate why; though Martin suspects neither of them wants to speak or be around him at the moment. 

**__** _“Just, talk to Georgie.” Jon had said, without looking Martin in the eye, staring at a point over his shoulder. “She’ll know what to do about it.”_

And Daisy wouldn’t look at him anymore, after last night she wouldn’t go anywhere near him. He tried to reassure her. His arm hurt but he’s fine, Jon's stitches were holding him together fine, everything’s okay; smile and make sure the ones around you are cared for first-- _too kind, Martin_. 

She had looked angry after that, her posture ramrod straight, her fists clenched so hard she shook--Jon is worried about it too, he can tell. 

But they won’t talk to him. 

So here he stands, swaying in the breeze like a lost soul among the found, with a pocket full of borrowed money and a destination at hand.

He buys clothes first, his own are still crisp with salt water and smelling faintly of rotten seaweed and fear sweat. He makes his purchases and locates a shower. He finds one easily by strolling along the beach and he sets about scrubbing away the sweat and the flakes of dried blood still crusted to his skin and tries to wash out his hair as best he can. He changes quickly, feeling very cramped in Daisy's hand-me-down jacket.

He picks up things for Jon; things he had been asked to get, and then some that he hadn't. In the grocery store he pauses by the liquor aisle, and after a split second’s hesitation, makes a terrible decision in the form of two bottles that clink into each other in his plastic shopping bags, like an incriminating reminder. He thanks the cashier, who doesn’t look at him.

Martin all but slams into a young man upon leaving the shop. He stammers apology after apology but the man didn’t appear to be listening, he just sort of...eyed Martin up and down. Not even in an openly lustful or curious way; he just looked kind of annoyed under his dark makeup and even darker clothes, in a way not typically reserved for minor inconveniences, like Martin had personally wronged him in some way. 

He ignores Martin as he rights his cane-- _I’m so sorry, can I help? I’m sorry_ \--and walks off without a word.

The next thing he does is find a phone. 

Martin grits his teeth and punches in the familiar numbers, and while the dial tone rings and rings and rings he can’t help but fidget until the receptionist picks up. 

“Hello, this is Martin Blackwood--” he starts, like he’s reading a script, cheery voice and hopeful. 

The receptionist knows exactly who he is at this point, and she chatters animatedly over the line while she waits for a nurse to check in on his mother. Martin laughs politely at her jokes and makes up some story about his job off the top of his head. He hopes he sounds normal to her; even though his palms sweat and he stops breathing when she pauses to speak to the nurse. 

“ _I’m sorry, dear. Ms. Blackwood isn’t taking phone calls today, she’s just having a lie down--_ ” the woman on the other end says, petering out excuse after excuse, but Martin has stopped listening. He manages to end the call without being totally rude and stands there with the phone still held up to his head, blaring the dial tone into his ears until they ring. 

He wants to cry. He has never wanted to be held more then now, he wants a warm embrace and a soft smile and he wants to be loved. He wants his mother before she hated him, he wants a time when things weren’t so bad. When he had dreams and ambitions and the good in the world stood out, and wasn’t something he had to go looking for. 

He wants so many things that he does not deserve.

Maybe that was just his naivety. Perhaps his mother had always hated him, and in her later years she had just stopped bothering to hide it.

He lets the phone drop and smack into the side of the booth as he leaves. 

\--

The walk is much longer then he expects, or is he lost? Maybe had he made a wrong turn somewhere, he wouldn’t know. The impossibly tall buildings surrounding him are faceless and monotone, each one the spitting image of the next. Every step takes him farther and farther away from the sunshine, even the sound of bustling people enjoying the unnaturally sunny weather dims, which really should have tipped him off. 

Martin makes it exactly two blocks to Barker's apartment before he gives up and tries to turn around. 

It’s another block or so when he realizes he’s back where he started. 

And it’s colder.

There’s mist under his feet.

Martin sucks in a breath that freezes solid in his lungs, petrifying. He does not look down again, he doesn’t even want to think about what he might see; Would he see his own body? Or would he see the pavement, where legs should be? More fog? Corroding upwards from the cement until it falls away into dirt, dragging him under and sealing the entrance, _who notices a missing poet?_

_He doesn’t think about it._

His hands slip around the bags, clammy with sweat. He tries to find another person; anyone to anchor himself to reality with, but the street is deserted. The shops around him are all locked, their windows dark and Martin stops checking them when he realizes he can’t even see his own reflection in the glass. 

He can’t help looking behind him, some paranoid voice in the back of his head screams and screams that he’s being _watched_ but every time he works up the nerve to look, there are no monsters hiding in the shadows to consume him. There is only fog; creeping along the corners, in the cracks of the pavement, twisting along the telephone wires. Following him. 

Martin runs. 

He runs until his legs ache and maybe he should have dropped the bags at some point but at this point they’re clutched so tightly in his hands he wouldn’t be surprised to find them bleeding where the plastic handles dig in. He runs, and the scenery around him doesn’t change but the town wasn’t _endless_ , there had to be a way _back_. 

_Oh, but did he want to go back?_

He slows. 

Back to what, exactly? An apartment with a handful of useless, sentimental trinkets, dead plants and plenty of mugs for all those friends and visitors he doesn’t have. A life spent in limbo is no life worth returning to, there are no roots in the soil. He already doesn’t see or speak with his mother, and while it’s not from his own lack of trying, it _must definitely_ be his fault somehow.

_Back to the Tundra?_

Back to Jon?

Jon.

The one who scolds, and scowls, and doesn’t seem to think very highly of Martin at all. The one that tried to kill him, the monster of the depths. Wicked claws and eyes to match; but there’s kindness in those eyes. He's seen it, like the first rays of sunlight at dawn, pouring through the cracks to bathe the world in it’s warmth. And those hands that should _tear_ and _rend_ are gentle, a contrast too much for poor Martin's heart to keep up with. 

Jon would be waiting, wouldn’t he? Maybe not for Martin, maybe not just for _him_ , but he would be waiting. Helpless hope blooms in his chest, soft and already wilting in the chill but he nurtures it carefully; coaxing the sprout into something tangible, a charming little flutter of butterfly wings. 

Well, Martin's always been teased for his strange tastes, what’s one more pathetic feeling to the rest?

He doesn’t notice a dramatic parting in the fog, or some sort of divine intervention to lead him back to safety. The buildings just, become normal; there are irregularities and chipped bricks, shiny window panes with aged signs taped and tacked to the surfaces. The chill lingers, and the mist follows him all the way to the edges of the pier, like some kind of sick imitation of a dog. The people around him bustle and move with animated life, and their steps finally disperse the mist into nothingness. 

He doesn’t so much as turn his head, through every shaky breath he keeps his eyes on the restless sea.

\--

Martin shuffles back to the safehouse with his collection of bags and ice cold fingers, and when he finds the deck and kitchen deserted, he nearly spirals right back into a panic attack. Had they changed their minds and gone ashore looking for him _or, or, or--?_

He looks around nervously, half hoping to see a seal pop up over the waves, but no such comfort comes. 

He sets his bags on the counter, filing away the milk and eggs into the tiny fridge, and the rest of the lot into the cabinets below with a numb sort of autopilot. He had been hoping Jon would let him make dinner, some sort of repayment for all they’ve done to help him. Bile rises in his throat and he chokes back a sob.

“Why didn’t you meet my friend?”

Martin yelps and he drops a can. It rolls across the floor and comes to a neat stop at Jon's feet. Jon, who stands there with his brows furrowed in a smash of annoyance and confusion. Martin flounders, almost knocking the rest of the groceries to the ground in his panic. He tries for a laugh that makes him sound dumb and unassuming, not meeting Jon’s eye. 

“How’d you know I didn’t go?” he stalls, willing himself back under control. 

Jon shrugs uncomfortably. “I spoke on the radio with her.” he says, and he’s _lying_ , and Martin _knows_ he’s lying because he’s _terrible_ at it.

Well, it makes him feel a little bit better for lying in turn.

“Oh, sorry, I must have forgotten, lost track of time, ya’know.” he says with an apologetic smile. “Better luck next time?”

Jon stares at him and Martin holds his gaze, standing perfectly still, waiting for those judging eyes to slide away from him.

“Did you get your supplies?” Jon asks, and Martin breathes a sigh of relief. 

“Yeah, even got some tea bags and a kettle! Since you said you’ve never tried it, I thought we could make some here on the boat?” Martin says, and doesn’t mention the two bottles of liquor hiding away at the bottom of one of the bags, nor the terror that had followed him from the shore. 

Martin moves past Jon and rather hurriedly sets up the kettle on the safehouse’s tiny stove. This was something he could do _right_ , this was something _normal._ He was good at this, caretaking. Or at least, he thought he was. He pauses. His mother hadn’t thought he had been good at taking care of her, he was forgetful; he was always late and he left her alone while he worked. 

Jon slides around him, and Martin jumps at the sudden brush of contact, startlingly warm. Since when had he grown so cold? He frowns down at his teabags, and watches his fingers shake. 

Two cups are placed in front of him, and he looks up to see Jon hovering. He even catches Jon working his jaw, as if chewing on the words before swallowing them back down. In the end they just stand there, awkwardly making eye contact only to break it just as quick. 

The kettle starts to boil and Martin pours the water before it starts to scream in earnest, well aware of Jon’s hatred toward loud noises by now. 

The pattern of preparing the tea is an easy rhythm to fall back into, but he hesitates with Jon's cup. He couldn’t just _ask_ how he took his tea, how would he know if he never had any? He could make it the same way he liked it, but something tells him Jon wouldn’t appreciate his tastes. And-- _oh god_ , what if Jon _hates_ it if he makes it wrong? 

He spends so much time fretting over the cups that Jon waves a hand in front of his face, making him leap back. Jon startles with him, his face morphing into a look of concern where it had just been impatience. 

“Are you alright, Martin?”

And then his hand rests on Martin’s shoulder, burning a brand through his jumper and down into his skin, lighting his nerves on fire. He doesn’t have an answer for Jon, what could he say? _Oh yes, just peachy, thought I was being followed back to the boat by some sentient fog, the usual._ Jon already blindly refuses to see the supernatural that surrounds them, that makes up his flesh and blood, he wasn’t about to open his eyes because Martin was _scared_.

Martin swallows, nods. 

“Right...” Jon doesn’t look so sure, he glances down at the twin cups. “is it ready then?”

Martin snaps back into action, his face heats up against his will and he makes a quick, reckless decision and sweetens Jon's cup with milk and sugar before offering it over. 

He burns himself drinking his tea too quickly, but he barely notices; all his attention is on Jon, who stares into his cup as if the secrets of the world were hidden there, just under the placid surface. It’s the only non chipped mug on the boat and it has ‘ _OLD AGE IS LIKE UNDERWEAR, IT CREEPS UP ON YOU_ ’ scrawled across its sides. He takes a sip, prim as can be; his eyebrows knit together, like he’s seriously considering if he likes it. 

“Thank you, Martin.” Jon says, looking directly at him. He doesn’t smile, but Martin still warms despite himself. 

“No problem.” Martin mumbles, gulping another mouthful of scalding liquid. 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Jon frowns, and he doesn’t touch his tea again. 

Martin starts, tacks on that placid smile again. “Of course.”

“You look a bit pale.” 

“It was a bit chilly.” Martin lies.

Jon stares incredulously, and he _doesn’t_ touch his _tea_ \--he has his hand resting right there next to the cup, a scant few inches away but he isn’t _drinking it_. He’s looking at Martin with such tender concern but why won’t he _drink his tea--_

“Martin, what--” 

“Is there something wrong with the tea?” Martin blurts, maybe just a touch too loudly, judging by Jon's responding flinch. 

“No?” Jon says. 

“I can make it differently if you don’t like it sweet.” Martin says desperately. 

“Martin, it’s fine.” Jon says sternly. It’s fine, _it’s fine_. “Really, are you alright?”

He drums his fingers against the table and Martin's gaze zeroes in on the innocent motion. On Jon's fingers, too sharp and too scarred; there’s his blood caked under Jon's nails. There are stitches in Martin's arm and they itch but he doesn’t dare move to touch them, he’s convinced if he even shifts a muscle he might fly apart; his body scattering not violently, but softly, dissolving into the air like the morning fog. 

“No.” he decides and promptly bursts into tears. 

“Martin!” Jon yelps, and he’s a picture of surprise; his arms flail uselessly around, and the _horror_ in his voice is almost enough to make Martin laugh, and he might be, he’s a little busy choking on his gasps to notice. 

Something heavy settles around his shoulders, a grounding, soft presence close to a hug, but not quite. He pulls the soft edges of Jon’s jacket tighter around himself. It’s still warm, and it smells like _Jon_ , of fresh air and crisp paperbacks, ink and salt.

“I'm sorry,” Martin coughs, strangling his emotions back into a ball, just tuck it somewhere it can’t get out again this time. “I just-there was--I got lost, on the way to Georg--to your friends’.”

“Lost?” Jon questions, though his tone has an edge to it, like he already knows what will follow. 

“It was there, Jon. The stupid fog,” Martin mumbles through his fingers mutely. “and it was _real,_ I know you don’t believe m--in it and I’m sorry, but I’m not _lying_ and it was there and it was horrible, and I was scared.”

His statement is followed by silence, stifling. He waits; for the scoff, for the panicked denial-- _it’s not real, Martin, get a grip_.

“I'm sorry that happened,” is what he hears, and it’s Jon's stuffy, awkward voice. “this is clearly worse then first thought. You should probably stay close to me--or Daisy! Um, you know, just in case it comes back?” 

Martin looks up through blurry eyes, and finds Jon with his hand half reached out toward him, frozen in the air as if caught in the act. It shoots back to rest close to Jon's chest in that familiar, protective pose, but Jon at least tries to look empathetic; an expression that sets on his face like an ill fitting coat, badly. 

“I really do think you should talk to Georgie still,” Jon continues, lost in thought. “...I’ll have to speak to Daisy about it when she returns.”

Something frozen and cold still rattles away in his chest, piercing him with every shaky exhale. But it melts, ever so slightly, with Jon's stumbled words. The unvoiced implication that he was to stay, even for just a little bit longer, is more then enough anchorage for his soul.

“Thanks, Jon.” Martin says quietly. He can’t quite keep the wonder out of his voice, but Jon nods severely, clearly in another world. He holds in his gasp as Jon finally wins whatever battle is raging inside him, and lightly pats him on the shoulder, _there, there_. 

“The tea was...adequate.” Jon adds, somewhat waspishly, sweeping his cup into his hands and cradling it close, though can’t be that warm anymore, Martin appreciates the effort. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the mug jon has is one i actually own


	6. ECHO, ECHO, ECHO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Next weeks update will be a lot later in the day as its the same day we're driving back the 10 hours to Michigan. So it won't be posted til around 7 or later EST. Unless we stop somewhere with wifi lol.

“Daisy, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I don't exactly look like your average upstanding citizen.”

The Safehouse rocks gently from side to side, the water choppy and beginning to darken. They’re the only ones moving about near the docks now, with all the other sailors returning to their homes inland to wait out the coming storm.

Jon stands at the edge of the Safehouse, gesturing up and down to himself to prove his point, scowl firmly attached to his face. Underneath it all is a very real look of exhaustion. 

“I’m not sure that’s true--” Martin pipes up from his spot by the kitchen.

“Last time I visited, Melanie told me I looked like a drowned cat.”

Martin chokes on a startled laugh, and Jon's irritated expression breaks away into a smile, looking hesitantly pleased with himself. 

“Well, a lot has changed since then, doubt you’ll have to worry about her looking at you now.”

Daisy picks idly at the pelt slung over her shoulders, trying valiantly to ignore Jon’s protests. She has one foot dangling in the water, literally in the process of leaving for one of her elusive hunts--that of which Martin still doesn’t know the full context of--clearly wishing to bring the conversation to a close. Though unfortunately, Jon is missing the cue. 

“I can’t stay cooped up here, Jon. Just look at what happens.” she says; with curt, steely matter of factness. “We’ve talked about this.”

An unspoken weight hovers in the air above them, a long standing argument threatening to tear apart once again, not unlike the storm brewing behind them. The cloying tension holds--and then Jon breaks.

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.” he says, petulantly. 

“You could try being less of an ass about it.” Daisy replies. 

“I could.”

She smacks him in the shin, though her smile is a thinly drawn back thing, before it slips away into something serious; something full of longing, and her gaze is slowly drawn back to the sea. 

“You’ll be fine, Sims. Georgie doesn’t really know me, and you should catch up without my brooding.” Daisy chides, knocking her elbow into his leg again and repeating the motion until he steps out of range with a loud complaint of broken kneecaps. 

Jon _sighs_ in the most dramatic, put upon manner imaginable. 

“Go on then, just don’t go too far this time.” he says, with a cursory glance toward the horizon, though he doesn’t look even the slightest bit worried by the clouds forming. 

“I won’t. I'll listen for the quiet.” Daisy agrees, relief in her voice. Her face hardens, the skin drawn up close to her chest and she lets herself drop off the side of the boat, and then she’s gone from sight. 

Seconds later, her clothes surface, and Jon uses a long pole to fish them aboard. 

“So,” Martin says, “just the two of us to Georgie's then?” 

“Seems like it.” Jon drapes the wet clothing across the deck, leaving it there to dry. He turns back to Martin with a sort of appraising look, “It’s been...a while since Georgie and I spoke, she might not be that thrilled to see me, but I doubt she’ll slam the door in our faces. Probably.”

He shoots Jon a bewildered look, but receives nothing more on the matter. At this point he’s desperately curious about this Georgie person, though trying to get Jon to open up about her is...a difficult task. Every shred of information starts to knit together a picture, though he doesn’t really understand what he’s looking at. 

“Is Daisy taking off because of me?” he asks instead. 

Jon shoots him a tight smile, and doesn’t respond.

\--

Jon turns helplessly nervous the entire walk from the piers to Georgie’s apartment. He constantly wrings his hands, turning them over and over and twisting the hair tie around his wrist until it snaps under the pressure. 

He looks back toward the sea until it is fully out of sight. Then his eyes slide to the strangers passing them on the street, as if he was looking into their souls. 

Martin tries to get him to relax, offering a running commentary of anything that takes his fancy; the pair of ducks pattering around by the village fountain, pointing out the tea shop he had been in less then a day before, speculating on whether or not the farm at the end of the street had any cows. Jon doesn’t say much in response, and anything he does spit out is cutting and final. 

“I didn’t think you would have many friends inland.” Martin says, and nearly hits himself the moment the words leave his mouth. 

Jon doesn’t spare him a second glance, so the implication might have been lost to him, “I don’t. She was my ex-girlfriend, we don’t talk.”

Martin blinks. _Oh,_ okay.

And that’s the end of that.

He tries not to be put out by Jon’s behavior, especially when he winces after every snap sent Martin’s way, as if he hadn’t meant to be so harsh. He's so busy dancing around Jon and his fickle temperament that he almost doesn’t notice the man following them. 

He goes quiet, and lets their walking continue in silence, just to be sure he isn’t imagining it. But the man keeps cropping back up in the crowd--he’s unmistakable and _familiar,_ with his long, dark hair and cane. 

Martin opens his mouth, about to warn him when Jon lays a hand on his arm, and his attention snaps up to Jon's face. 

“Ignore him.” Jon says quietly, “He won’t do anything.”

Martin has exactly one hundred questions, but Jon’s expression tells him to keep them all to himself for the time being. So he clamps his mouth shut and tries to ignore the tall goth tailing them with all the subtlety of a flashing neon sign. 

When they reach the shadows of their destination--an apartment complex settled further into the city--the man promptly vanishes as if repelled from the place. 

Martin breathes a sigh of relief, the tension melting away under the summer sun, though it winds back up for round two as Jon leads him into the maze of apartment hallways until they land at a door numbered ninety-four. Jon rings the doorbell without any preamble.

The woman that answers freezes with the door half open, her jaw drops.

“Jonathan Sims, you _bastard!_ ” the woman cries, and then promptly flings herself into Jon, hugging him tightly as he squawks in protest. 

Martin hovers awkwardly by the door, taking in this woman who must be the aforementioned Georgie Barker; she’s short, with bright eyes and an even brighter smile, dimples and all. As she finally releases Jon from her embrace, Martin notices she tucks her hair around her ear, covering the knotted and scarred skin across her neck and ear, the discoloration of it is eerily _wrong_. 

Her eyes find Martin, and she looks between him and Jon with puzzlement. “Did you find a new friend, Jon?” she asks, then presses her wrist to Jon’s forehead with mock concern. “Are you feeling well?”

“Yes, hello to you too, Georgie.” Jon grumbles, though it’s clearly for show from the way his mouth tilts up into a hesitant smile. “Sorry, I meant to radio ahead...”

“ _But_ you forgot, I know.” she beckons them into the apartment. “Hi Jon’s friend! I’m Georgie, I'm sure he’s also failed to tell you anything about me.”

 _I know you’re his ex, does that count?_ Martin thinks wildly, as Jon sputters with indignation. 

“Fine, Georgie, this is Martin, my...friend.” Jon cringes, and Martin pretends not to notice. “Martin, this is Georgie, my ex-girlfriend.”

Martin waves and promptly feels like an idiot.

“Hello, again.” Georgie snorts. 

Georgie's apartment has a well lived in feel to it, the coffee table is stacked with books and loose papers, and there’s a giant poster on the opposite wall that proclaims; “ _WHAT THE GHOST?_ ” in a bright font, surrounded by about a dozen polaroid pictures. Martin squints over at them, searching for Jon among the many faces, but most are of a fuzzy, white cat and another woman wearing dark tinted sunglasses. 

There’s a desk in the corner, absolutely covered in electronics; from boom stands to microphones and headsets, and those weird spiky foam squares he’s seen youtubers staple to their walls. There's even one of those bulky radios Jon keeps on the Safehouse, and its terrible speakers croon out a song Martin's never heard before. 

Jon beelines down a hallway and vanishes into a room with a loud exclamation, leaving Georgie and Martin to stand awkwardly in the living room; two complete strangers with their one connection distracted, gone in the wind. 

Georgie smiles at him, “Would you like some tea?” 

Martin sighs with relief, “Yes, please.”

“I’ll take some tea too.” Jon pipes up, his head shooting out from around a doorframe, and Georgie shoots him a curious look. 

“You’ve never wanted to try tea before.” she says, questioningly. 

“Yes, well,” Jon bumbles, and he’s obviously trying to look haughty and unapproachable but it's a difficult image to maintain when he comes shuffling back toward them holding a cat in a very loving embrace. “I’m allowed to change my mind.”

Georgie raises her hands in surrender, turning with an exaggerated flourish toward the kitchen. 

Jon continues to stand there, the cat sitting in his arms with a lovestruck expression of contentment, purring like a thunderstorm. Martin perches himself on the edge of the couch tentatively. 

“This is the Admiral.” Jon tells him seriously, with an unnecessary nod down at the cat.

“Oh, hello there!” Martin coos, then cringes under the combined gaze of Jon and the Admiral. The cat blinks down at him placidly, extending a paw languidly that Martin gently pets. 

“Georgie never let me take him on boat trips,” Jon says, rather accusingly. 

“And that statement still stands, you cannot steal my cat.” Georgie says brightly upon reappearing, carrying three novelty mugs precariously. Martin leaps up to help her and they all settle, Jon, Martin, and the Admiral on the couch, and Georgie in an armchair. “What’s this all about then?”

“I could just be here to see you, Georgie.”

Georgie raises an eyebrow, “Are you?”

Her question is met with somewhat petulant silence. 

“Jon, please. I know you wouldn’t be here unless you needed something, so just spit it out.” she implores, her brows pinch together with discomfort. “You know how I feel about...everything.”

Jon’s face twists unpleasantly, “Right.”

He launches into a recount of the past weeks’ events for Georgie, going into such immaculate, intricate detail that honestly surprises Martin he remembers that much; he spins the horrors and traumas of Martin’s experience into something more, his voice dipping into a rich, entrancing thing that captivates and allures. 

Martin is fixated, totally under the spell until Jon stops speaking and the sudden stop leaves him reeling, goosebumps breaking out across his skin. He looks to Georgie for her reaction, but finds her completely unfazed, albeit frowning. 

“You think something’s following you…” she says after a long pause, sitting so her arms are wrapped tightly around her knees. “...and you came here.”

Jon winces at her implications, “I was hoping you might shed some light upon the problem, what with your unusual interests.”

“Hosting a paranormal podcast isn’t the same as purging a malicious fog.”

“It doesn’t feel malicious.” Martin pipes up, scrambling to put it into words that feel lacking compared to Jon’s otherworldly descriptions, but something urges him to speak up in defense. “It just feels...it makes you feel things, not _good_ things, but I don’t think it wants to hurt anyone.”

Jon shoots him a curious look, but he thankfully doesn’t pry. 

Georgie frowns. “You mean it doesn’t want to hurt _you._ ”

He opens his mouth to protest, but he stops himself. He doesn’t really know, does he?

The Admiral stretches, striding across both of their laps to hop over onto the arm of Georgie’s chair. She strokes along his back, her face pinched with contemplation. She doesn’t look like the same woman they had just talked to, all the delight and friendliness has bled away, leaving her almost drawn out, all the life drained out of her.

“Fine, you want my honest advice? Stay close to each other.” Georgie says.

Jon blanches. “We can’t do that forever.”

Martin nods, though...the idea isn’t as unappealing to him as it clearly is to Jon.

“It left you alone when you were around other people.” Georgie shrugs, “Or better yet _stop_ doing this, Jon.”

When she looks back up at them, her eyes going from him to Jon, there is a finality in them. 

“I’m sorry I don’t think you should be here. This is exactly the type of thing I want to avoid--and you _know_ that Jon, after everything.” she says, setting her cup down on the table.

“I didn’t realize that avoidance only excluded Melanie.” Jon says, his voice scathing. 

“That’s different.” she says it quietly, though her tone suggests they are in somewhat dangerous waters; _tread carefully_. 

The look Georgie settles onto Jon--the most acute kind of pity, one that’s only born from years and years of genuine care being whittled down and disregarded. It’s knowing; understanding that it will be ignored, it’s warning fallen on deaf ears. There is her own frustration there too, strong enough that she purses her lips and shakes her head with annoyance. 

Jon doesn’t seem to get the memo, he looks frustrated and gearing up for something vicious. 

“Jon.” Martin says warningly, placing his hand warily on Jon’s arm. 

He doesn’t know what happened between them, he’s out of place and unwanted, but he can’t let them--let Jon spiral this out of control.

“Fine then.” Jon rips out of Martin’s grasp as he stands, though he reaches to drag Martin along as well, keeping his hand fisted in Martin's jacket. “This was a waste of time, we’ll be getting out of your hair.”

That’s all it takes for Georgie’s expression to sour. “Don’t do that, Jon. You know my opinion on what you and Daisy do, I don't want to be involved with this at all.”

“I don’t know what you mean, come _on_ , Martin--”

“Jon, don’t you think we should-” Martin stutters, at this point he’s been dragged all the way to the front door by Jon's imposing strength; he digs in his heels, looking desperately between Jon and Georgie. 

He doesn’t know what to do, so he just takes the hand Jon has tightly clenched in his jacket, untangles his loosening fingers and determinedly holds them between his own, stroking a gentle thumb across the back of Jon's hand. 

Jon stutters like an animatronic, then all but sags in defeat, like his wires had been cut. He doesn’t take his hand away. “I’m sorry, Georgie. That was unkind, I’m just--frustrated.”

“You’re _scared_ ,” Georgie says bluntly, and Jon flinches. She softens her expression slightly, letting out a sigh. “Go, but promise you’ll at least keep safe, alright?”

Jon nods minutely, “Of course.”

They share a few quiet words on the way out the door, things Martin doesn’t try to pry in on and they don’t raise their voices again.

Jon storms back down the streets, with Martin a couple paces behind, trying to catch up. His face is completely obscured by his hair, shoulders hunched up protectively and every inch of him radiates an absolutely _foul_ mood. 

Martin lets it continue to permeate the air around them until he can no longer stand it. 

“So...what happened to this Melanie?” Martin asks hesitantly. Internally, he prays he isn’t stepping on another landmine that might set Jon off. 

“She was shot by a ghost.” comes the short, albeit muffled reply from inside the nest of hair as Jon reemerges. 

“Uhm.” Martin takes in Jon's stoic expression and finds he is completely incapable of telling if that was sarcasm. “No, really what happened?”

“She was _shot,_ by a _ghost._ ”

“ _Okay._ ” Martin drags the word out, unable to grapple with the absurdity of what happens to be his life now. “And you thought Georgie could help me, because she helped Melanie with a gunshot wound from...a ghost.”

Jon tenses up, obviously gearing up for a biting remark, then deflates back into himself. He pulls his jacket tighter around his shoulders, and keeps his hands tucked inside the folds. “Sounds worse when you put it like that.” 

He simmers in silence like that, prickly and on edge. 

“What happens now?” Martin asks.

“I’m not sure.” Jon sighs. "This would have been so much easier if I--" he cuts himself off, looking _horrified_ and then guilty. 

Martin stops walking all together, feeling for all the world like a cloud had just blotted out the sun above. The air feels cold all over again, but this time there is no terrifying mist or fog to blame, just the distance between them.

"What?" Martin asks, blandly. "Drowned me before I could become a nuisance to your life?"

"I didn't say that." Jon snaps, but lack of denial is all Martin needs.

“That’s what Georgie meant back there, isn’t it? Is that how you _helped_ the other people before me?” Martin asks, “They can’t be tortured or-or- _or_ fed to a stupid fog if you and Daisy get to them first, right?”

Jon stays quiet. 

"You killed people, Jon. All those _'people you saved'_ are dead at the bottom of the ocean." Martin says, gesturing wildly, the words are sour and rotten in his mouth. 

"Not all of them." Jon replies stonily. "Lukas does worse."

"That doesn't _excuse_ it." Martin exclaims.

“I _know_ \--I’m not trying to.” Jon turns away. His hands slip from the safety of his jacket and there are small, yet unmistakable marks, fresh and bleeding where claws had dug into his own flesh. 

“I need some air.” Martin says. “I’ll...be back later, alright?” 

"I really don't think that's wise, Georgie said you **should stay-** " Jon starts, with a pull in his voice. Something prickles along the base of his spine, slow and creeping and suddenly all Martin wants is to stay right there, with Jon; he was right, obviously, as long as he was close, he would be safe. 

It has him recoiling just as it has him taking a step in Jon’s direction, and it hurts to stop. 

“Don’t do that.” Martin hisses, as his head swims. 

To his credit, Jon has the decency to look horrified with himself. “I’m sorry, oh god, Martin, I didn’t mean to--”

"I'll meet you back at the Safehouse, Jon." Martin cuts in, and even though he winces as his voice snaps and breaks. He turns on his heels and walks in the opposite direction; he doesn’t know where he’s going, but he doesn’t care.

\--

Martin blinks, and he’s in front of the payphones again. He can’t possibly begin to understand what brought him to come here, nor what twisted, self loathing has him once again punching in the numbers to his mothers’ care home, his fingers pulling the metal receiver away and up to his ear. 

“Hello, this is...” _Martin Blackwood, I'm calling to see if my mum could possibly take a call right now? It’s fine if she can’t_ \--his words shrivel up and die in his throat. 

He slams the receiver back into the dock, and briefly considers slamming his forehead into it as well, but the surface is grimy enough to make him reconsider. Instead he reaches up and runs his hands through his short hair with an exhausted sigh. 

“You should get going.”

Martin jumps, whipping around so fast he almost pulls something in his neck and comes face to face with a young man--the same one he had knocked over the day before, and who had just been _stalking_ them. He leans against the phone booth, his cane resting in the crook of his arm and he wears a heavy looking black coat, despite the brightly shining sun and heat. 

“Sorry, what?” Martin tries, too frazzled to even try and pretend to be polite. 

“Listen, this is gonna sound strange, but you’ve been marked and you really, really should get out of here before it gets you.” the man continues, his brows pinched together with some kind of resigned determination. 

“Marked by what?” Martin asks, and the man groans. 

“It's complicated.” he says. 

“Alright, then _uncomplicate it_. What’s your name? Or is that too much as well?” Martin says, aiming for friendly, though he misses by a long shot when his voice comes out just as frustrated and upset as he feels. 

“Gerard.” the man replies, as if automatically then cringes. He waves his hand in the air, exasperated. “Look, just--do you have any family? Friends? Anyone?”

Martin’s brain stalls, acutely aware of the sweat at the base of his neck, slowly sliding down his collar. He thinks of almost friends, people he had met back home but never really _knew;_ he was too busy taking care of his mother, there was no time to make friends. He thinks of his mother and hears a dial tone screech in his head. A little desperately, he thinks of Jon, and Daisy. 

But he didn’t know them, did he? Not really.

Gerard watches his expression with nervous worry. 

“I-yeah, of course.” Martin lies. 

Gerard relaxes a little, and he nods. 

“Good, that might be enough.” he says with a sigh. “Just think of them, alright? And leave this port soon, trouble’s coming.”

Gerard points behind him. 

Martin swings around, scanning the horizon with a jackrabbit heart. At first, he can’t see anything, the sun blinds him, beating down unforgiving pulses of heat. But then, just there, a little shape cresting the waves, bringing with it a great rolling cloud in the sky behind it. A ship, and even from this great distance, Martin knows what name he would find inlaid upon its side. 

He isn’t surprised to find that Gerard is gone when he turns back around. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hated writing this chapter tbh, i feel like i underutilized georgie as a character :( but oh well!


	7. • • •

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> quick updating schedule note: i'm going to be going down to one chapter a week (every tuesday) for the rest of the series, the last four chapters have a lot of editing to go through and i have a job on top of that, so there won't be another chapter until next week!
> 
> also huge thanks to [squipport](https://archiveofourown.org/users/squipport/pseuds/squipport) for betaing a little bit of this chapter, go read their fic its so cute and amazing.

“Persistent bastards.”

Jon pulls the binoculars away from his face, his mouth set in a grim line. 

They had to leave port without Daisy, with the Tundra looming ominously in the horizon--drawing closer with every panicked minute of unmooring and setting off. Jon had insisted she would be able to track them down, but even he had looked worried, which of course set Martin off in turn. 

They set off, staying as close to shore as they dared, something about being in the open water without her set Jon on edge, though nowadays _anything_ did, really. Not that he was paying attention.

“Your lot must have finally killed one too many of their playthings.” Martin mutters coldly.

In the six days of speedy travel away from the Tundra, nothing had been done to improve the strain between them--not that either of them have tried to fix anything; Jon just hovers around, like some kind of nervous moth, drawn toward the light but unsure what to do once it got there--and frankly Martin isn’t in the trying mood. 

“Martin,” Jon says slowly, staring in that way he does often; usually when he thinks Martin’s being a moron. “the Tundra was never chasing after me, they’ve been looking for _you_.”

Martin scoffs, frowning. “What? No it’s not. They dragged you onto the ship in the first place, Lukas has been trying to kill you!” 

The clouds overhead crackle with ill temper, casting the boat in strange, draining grey light. It makes Jon appear more gaunt, haggard as he slides into the chair across from Martin. He hasn’t been sleeping, that much is clear from the shadows under his eyes, the lifeless sheen to his skin--and even if he hadn’t been looking, the nightmares are enough of a tell themselves. Martin stamps down the spark of pity he feels.

“While you’re right that Peter Lukas has never turned down a chance to _hurt_ us, he’s never gone out of his way to seek us out until now.” Jon clarifies. “He’s--he’s probably not even _allowed to_ kill me.”

“What does that mean?” Martin asks, and Jon twitches uncomfortably. 

“It’s a long story.” Jon deflects, fumbling blindly for his lighter as he lights up yet another cigarette. But Martin isn’t in the mood. 

“No, sorry, you don’t get to do that.” Martin says, stabbing an accusing finger toward Jon. “Now isn’t the time for secrets or being cryptic. No more games, so just talk like a normal person.”

Jon doesn’t so much as flinch, matching Martin’s stony gaze with one of his own. He has never been one to push, or walk directly into conflict, but he holds his ground now, and it doesn’t take long before Jon relents, letting out a long, frustrated noise akin to a growl alongside a billow of smoke. 

"You’re right…” Jon concedes, like he’s been forced to swallow glass. “listen, things have happened with Lukas in the past, terrible things I don't _ever_ wish to repeat--you don't know what he is, the _friends_ he keeps."

“Then _tell me_.”

“ _Fine_.” Jon starts, his voice adopting a tone of professional distance, his eyes fixed at a point just past Martin's shoulder. “I have not been, nor will I ever be safe as long as I live this life as a creature such as I am. I have spent years avoiding the nets and collars of every monster worse than I that wishes to claim me or my skin. But the Tundra has always been one step ahead of me...”

Jon trails off, lost in thought. He smiles so sadly that Martin almost asks him to stop, but curiosity keeps him quiet. 

“I was so cocky, so _sure_ of myself and my abilities. But you can't avoid a cage when it is shrouded in fog.” Jon continues, “I was caught--Lukas wanted to give me back to the Institute, as a _gift_ , probably. I had to fight tooth and _bloody_ nail to get away before that happened. By the time that damn ship finally vanished from the horizon, I was just angry.

“I met Daisy, and she was willing to help me… _deal_ with the Tundra. So I tried to hurt him. Whatever he wanted I took before he could have it. Whether that be potential victims turned proteges or damaging the ship, it didn't matter. We were riding the world of monsters, at least, that's how it felt...but well, you know.”

His eyes flit up to catch Martin's gaze before shying away. “Things...changed.”

His voice warps and changes, fraying at the edges of control. Martin can feel the way his own face turns down in a grimace, unable to keep his horror from manifesting. Not when Jon bares his soul, albeit reluctantly. 

“But he never retaliated against us,” Jon frowns, with a very unsubtle clearing of his throat, “he’s never batted an eye until now.”

“The Institute you mentioned,” he starts softly, wary of Jon’s responding flinch. “does Lukas have a hand in that as well?”

Jon shakes his head, gathering his arms close around himself. “Not entirely. He supplies them with money and other such things. No, that place is...someone else’s doing.”

“And they hurt you too? They did--” Martin cuts himself off. He weakly gestures toward the whole of Jon. 

“Not all of it.” Jon says, rubbing at a couple of his scars. “But yes.”

“And have you hurt them? Has it even helped at all?”

“No. No it hasn’t.”

“Well.”

“Like I said, I'm not trying to justify my-my monstrosity.” 

“You aren’t a monster, Jon. But I don’t understand why you chose _now_ to run away from everything.”

“Because I’m scared, Martin!” Jon snaps, his voice loud like an explosion between them. “I don’t ever want to set foot on that ship again, and I won’t go back to whatever hellish games await me inland. But Lukas wants you--for _what_ I don’t know, could be something to do with the mark Gerry mentioned or simply just being a part of the Tundra, but that could mean anything. So if it means I have to run to protect us, then I will.”

Martin takes him in, all harsh edges and deranged eyes; biting at his lip with single minded doggedness, nails scraping skin as if to rip up every one of his imperfections up from the root with little care for the damage he’ll leave in its wake. 

“You don’t have to fight the world alone,” he says at last, though he isn’t surprised when Jon just shakes his head in instantaneous refusal. “I’m scared too, for what it’s worth.”

Jon jerks as if struck. The look on his face shatters the distance between them just as swiftly as it shatters Martin into a million tiny pieces. He meant it to pacify, to calm the turmoil raging away in Jon's mind so plainly. But Jon just looks as if the world crashed around his shoulders, the wall he had been building back up between them falling to the wayside, leaving him small, fragile. 

“I'm sorry.” he says, with such sincerity and grief it stabs a shard of pity deep into his chest, that Jon would assume it was _him_ Martin was afraid of. Maybe in the past that would have rang true, that his deeds would have proven too damning. 

“Just promise you won’t do that again.” Martin says, holding his gaze without flinch. 

Jon bristles immediately, predictably, despite all his claims against defending himself. His face does an interesting dance, twisting an array of emotions too quickly for Martin to truly parse until he lands on something weary, accepting. 

His voice is small, a croak of noise in the hollow of his throat. “Alright.”

“Alright?”

“Yes, okay.”

“Just to clarify, you know I mean the drowning--”

“ _Yes_ , Martin. I understand, thank you.” He snorts, a humorless sound but a step in the right direction. 

Martin ducks his head, hiding the small, blooming smile spreading across his lips. He reaches out between them, plucking the cigarette from Jon’s unsteady fingers, ignoring the absolutely _pissy_ look it earns him. Depositing it into the bin where it belongs, he turns back to face Jon, daring him to argue. 

Jon scowls, albeit softly. He raises the binoculars back up to scan the empty yet teeming wake they leave behind, not saying another word. 

\--

The thing is, Jon gets nightmares. 

They’re horrible little things, dragging cruel sounds of anguish and misery from Jon’s sleeping form. This hadn’t been so obvious before, when Martin slept on the couch in the cabin while Daisy and Jon shared the bed. But with Daisy gone, Jon sleeps alone and when he comes to in the middle of the night--kicking and screaming the first time, which had been a terrifying ordeal for the both of them--he is alone in his terror. 

The only noises that escape him now are the initial gasps of fear, and then silence. 

Or muffled crying. 

He doesn’t talk to Martin about it, it’s something left unspoken of between them. Martin is pretty sure he’s trying to hide it from him, as if he doesn’t wake up every time Jon jerks out of his sleep. It’s possibly the worst feeling in the world to sit there, with only the quiet between them as company. Knowing that in the morning, Jon will emerge into the world looking like the dead, dark circles digging holes under his eyes and a sheen of sweat coating his skin. 

So, he knows _exactly_ what wakes him even before his eyes open. Jon’s quiet, but not quiet enough to go unnoticed and Martin is a decidedly light sleeper. 

He turns over carefully, shuffling his blankets until he can see the tips of Jon’s curly hair and the tense arch of his shoulders. He’s facing away from him, but Martin can see the tremors that wrack his body, how his arms come up to rub at his sides in a feeble and absolutely heart wrenching attempt at self soothing. 

Martin weighs the pros and cons in his head, then listens to Jon utter a helpless noise under his breath, and throws them out the open window. He slides off the couch. 

Jon doesn’t turn as he approaches, but he does go deathly still. 

Martin kneels at the edge of the bed, hesitant, but he’s already taken the first step. _In for a penny, in for a pound,_ he thinks, albeit hysterically. So he very, _very_ carefully swings his legs onto the bed, and pillows his head where Daisy usually sleeps, shakily breathing in the smell of furs and Daisy and _Jon_. 

He doesn't move a muscle, even though every fiber of his being screams to run. He listens to Jon breathe, shallow and hiccuping around choked out whimpers. Helplessly, he reaches out. Jon jolts as he gently tugs his arm over, until Martin can hold his hand, awkwardly. The knotted swath of scars dragging unpleasantly.

Jon rolls onto his back and Martin's fingers slide perfectly between his, as if meant to be. 

Jon stares straight up at the ceiling, his eyelashes heavy with tears and wet lines staining his cheeks. Very faintly, his fingers squeeze Martin's and he closes his eyes. 

Martin does not sleep, he spends hours and hours staring at Jon, shameless. Whenever the darkness lurking in his mind seems to surface again, pulling his eyebrows together and a tenseness to his limbs, Martin strokes his thumb over Jon’s pulse point. Tightens his fingers until their palms are pressed firmly together, damp with fear sweat. 

He does not sleep, but he’s okay with that. 

\--

The night air is chilled, just the slightest bite of cold that has goosebumps skittering up and down his arms like many legged insects. His feet are numb against the worn deck of the Safehouse. He doesn't remember leaving the cabin. 

In front of him, Jon sits with his legs thrown over the edge of the boat, cloaked in a blanket. He is humming quietly, yet not. The noise that rises from his throat is the loudest thing Martin has ever heard and it is unrelenting from all directions and ceaseless. It demands him to come, and he goes, willing or not. 

His toes curl over the edge, the water lapping in soft curls below. He doesn't know what should happen next. His head is full of waves. 

Jon's arm strikes out and holds him fast, and Martin blinks. The beautiful melody is gone. His leg is raised in the open air, tipping toward the ocean yawning out before him. 

He stumbles back, barely catching himself as he slumps down next to Jon, who trembles with wide eyes. 

"That wasn't for you." Jon says, and it sounds like an apology. 

He knows why. It hurts, now that the hymn has stopped and quieted into silence, not even the gentle hum of the electric lights can fill the void it left in Martin's mind. He makes a deeply discontented noise, barely a croak, and Jon squeezes his arm once more, then retracts.

"What was that?" Martin asks, rubbing over the spot Jon had touched, still warm. "It felt…" 

He doesn't continue, there are no words. 

"It was a call to return home, for Daisy." Jon says, "I can compel others to do things. It doesn't always work, as-as you know. I don’t know _why_ , but it’s useful, sometimes." 

"Oh so _that's_ what that was, back at Georgie’s." he exclaims, shivering. 

Jon grimaces, hiking his blanket further up his shoulders. Though now that he’s looking, it’s not a blanket at all, but the strange seal skin that Daisy had attacked him for touching. It settles around Jon like it belonged, and Martin swears he sees the patterns blinking back at him in lazy waves. 

"I won't do it again, I was just...getting a little desperate." Jon mumbles, unaware of Martin’s staring. 

Martin nudges into him gently, and Jon presses them together from elbow to shoulder. “She said she’d come back soon, and _you_ said she knows how to find us.” 

“I hope she does.” Jon says, “I truly hope she does.”

Moonlight hits Jon, haloing him in its light like something ethereal. His eyes gleam just as Daisy’s had so many nights ago, softly aglow. It subdues the gnawing jealousy stirring in his gut, rearing its head up like a wild animal, frightened and pitiful. 

Martin hums, yawning so forcefully his jaw clacks.

"So you’ve tried ‘stay’ and ‘come’, may as well round it off and try ‘sit’, hm?" he jokes. 

For a moment, it falls completely flat. Jon looks horrified at the very suggestion and Martin almost panics. 

Then his expression shifts, crumbles; Jon snorts, unattractively, and loud. A helpless giggle works through him infectiously, drawing out an amazed laugh from Martin in return.

“Martin, that’s _terrible_.” Jon all but wheezes.

"Maybe ‘roll over’ too? How ‘bout ‘fetch’?" Martin goads, drunk on the breathless little gasps Jon chokes on.

They sit there for a while, long after Martin’s terrible jokes dry up and Jon’s brief moment of sunny happiness fades. Jon never pulls away from where they’re close together. He’s warm through the soft pelt between them and he dozes off with his head against Martin’s shoulder. 

\--

Martin makes him tea now.

It’s their ritual, rise in the morning--look to the horizon first, look for the storm clouds appearing from nothing, feel that fear ease when there’s nothing but clear skies and blue ocean--shuffle off to the kitchenette; Jon will make breakfast, and Martin will squeeze into the cramped space beside him to heat the water. They move around each other like dancers, three steps back, one step forward, don’t step on each others’ toes--too late; they brush, skin to skin and Jon will not ask about the red that stains his face, though at this point he surely _knows_.

Martin hasn’t pinpointed exactly how Jon likes his tea yet, it's a process in and of itself. A little game he plays each day, three sugars, two, or none? Did he like the milk last time or was he being kind when he smiled at Martin like he had hung the moon and the stars above? He doesn't know, and just like Jon, he doesn’t ask. He just keeps trying. 

After, they talk or read. Jon will poke fun at the poetry Martin longs for--though it’s no longer a biting, reproachful remark--and Martin will complain that all the books Jon has are boring, because _really, Jon, obscure theatre history and cult horror aren’t the most vast of collections._

And Jon smiles, slow and careful--for _Martin_. Sometimes he’ll laugh, so suddenly that it bursts out of him, like he himself was surprised by it. Martin's heart flutters in his chest, a small, easily startled bird that sings and sings and sings. 

It becomes a problem.

Amidst the constant background of panicked flight, Martin tries to return some normalcy to his life in the form of a borrowed notebook. He thumbs through the pages thoughtfully, until the leftover scrawls and nonsensical blurbs of Jon's handwriting disappear, and he is left with a blank page as a canvas. 

Martin has always found this calming, though his muse is a fickle creature and changes often. Some might call him a _romantic_ , and he can't rightly disagree when nearly all of his poems end up about yearning and the what-could-have-beens’ of life. He's dabbled in other topics, but no, his heart is an open window and he is a weak man, taken by the smell of roses drifting in. 

His muse has taken many forms in the past, all fleeting and full of directionless passion. The man behind the counter at his favorite cafe with the strong arms and soft eyes; the woman who smiled so brightly at him as she giggled and laughed into the drink he had made for her. The muse has worn their countless faces, and each rush stirring a helpless elation in his chest that he dares not dampen, spurring him on.

It had worked, of course, because it had always been that--fleeting. These gooey, sticky feelings he caught like a fly trap would pass with time, and in the meantime he would write whatever disgustingly adoring thing came to mind.

The problem was the muse had chosen a new face.

This one was becoming startlingly familiar. Of course, he should have seen it coming, it was bound to happen; close quarters and all that, and what with Martin's _unfortunate_ heart--

The muse looks like Jon. 

It has his face, his sharp features, the slant of his nose and the bristle of his brow. It whispered sonnets about his hair, curled and wild and natural; would it be soft? If he let him touch it, would he smile in that shattering way of his; small and dear, world weary with hardship? 

_Map out his scars, have you counted them all yet? How many go unnoticed--how much of your attention goes unnoticed?_ Surely he's picked up on the staring, surely he knows everything Martin’s wretched little heart sings about.

Martin daydreams about Jon skimming through the book, reading every little hopeless thought he's committed to ink. His brows pinched together as he takes it in, the reverence and devotion Martin has blindly placed onto page. Maybe he'd even read aloud, gracing Martin with the sweet timbre of his voice.

He doesn't. He's never even asked about the writing, and so Martin's secret is a safe and sure thing. Jon is a distant blinding light and Martin is but an earthly poet. There are worse fates for a heart like Martin's.

\--

Something huge slams into the deck of the Safehouse, sending a spray of salt water into the air and down onto Martin--and to his credit, he only screams a little bit as he scrambles backward, tripping into Jon as he does. 

“Daisy!” Jon cries with palpable relief, helping Martin to his feet before rushing to the bulky shape of the selkie. 

“Bloody fucking Tundra _bastards._ ” Daisy all but snarls the moment her skin peels away, burrowing deep into her towels while Martin fetches her a cup of tea. 

She is unharmed, Jon had made sure of that, but there is a terrible tautness to her visage; the skin under her eyes is so deeply shadowed it appears bruised. She looks somehow thinner, like she had lost a frightening amount of weight in the short time they had been apart, and she wolfs down all the leftovers from dinner like a starving animal. 

Jon does not seem too alarmed by any of this. If anything, he looks a bit sad--no, that’s not right. _Nervous_. 

“You were right to leave, they’re following us.” Daisy mumbles through a mouthful of bread and cheese. She flashes Martin a grateful look as he hands her the tea, though her smile is absent. 

“Are they close?” Jon asks, with an underline of panic worming its way into his voice. 

She shakes her head, “Must be days behind, we can outrun them, but we can’t outlast them forever.” she drums the sharp ends of her claws against the ceramic cup, then, timidly; “They interrupted my hunt.” 

Jon’s face does an interesting thing, in which he looks both relieved and wholly distressed at the same time. He flits forward to take Daisy's hand, but she brushes him off with a shuttering shake of her head. 

“I’m alright, I can manage.” Daisy says. 

“Are you sure.” Jon says, a statement. 

She holds his gaze evenly, “I have it under control.”

Martin bites his lip, and stays quiet. There are things they don’t tell him, and that’s fine, really it is. But he can’t help but feel he’s missing something important, and the urge to help is a constant in the back of his mind.

The feeling persists the rest of the day, as Jon fills Daisy in on the last few days of travel, beating a pattern akimbo in his chest.

\--

That night, Jon grabs his wrist before he can sneak back to his old resting place on the couch--with Daisy back, what purpose--what _right_ does he have taking up space on the bed? But he’s led there regardless. He falls asleep to the sound of Daisy’s soft breathing and Jon's snoring, and for once, no terror wakes him in the night. 

It is only after that, does he really start to think about it. 

He takes in the way Daisy and Jon cling to each other like they might be torn apart otherwise, a quiet desperation that has them leaning into each other for comfort. What he had initially seen as wildly out of control flirty touches--with only a huge amount of jealousy--were the acts of two very desperate and lonely people. 

And he decides to test his growing theory.

He starts with Daisy, of all people. 

He thought getting her to warm up to him-- _again_ \--would be difficult. 

He was wrong. 

He tries light, meaningless touches: Brushing past her on the way into the kitchen, murmuring his good mornings with a nudge. Never anything concrete or encompassing, nothing meant to startle. He _expects_ suspicion in turn, to be pinned by those harsh, hungry eyes and then some. 

But instead she leans into it, hesitantly, as if expecting the floor to be swept up from under her feet. When Jon isn’t present to provide a calming presence, she slides her chair loudly across the ground until it's next to his. Even as they eat in silence, it is companionable and Martin finds he doesn’t mind it. 

“Sorry about your arm.” she says, startling him enough to spill his tea. 

He stares at her curiously, but her expression betrays nothing, besides a low level look of discomfort--a side effect from the emotional vulnerability? 

So he nods, and she relaxes. When she goes to grab a plate, she knocks her shoulder roughly into his.

There are still times in which she scares him, and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to shake those feelings when her body is taunt with a longing that reeks of blood lust--his arm still aches most days, and he will have scars in the shape of her claws. But he cares for her all the same. 

Approaching Jon on the other hand, is a whole different matter.

Jon gets _jumpy_.

With every soft, coaxing movement Martin makes in his direction, he tenses. Friendly pats on the arm may as well be punches, with how much Jon flinches. It gives Martin pause, enough that he worries maybe he was being too obvious, given his little _experiment_ away. 

But after a brief wave of uncomfortable confusion, even Jon blooms under the attention. 

\--

Martin rises from the dead the next morning to find Jon hunched over in one of the rickety plastic chairs, a radio transmitter clutched in one hand and several maps and papers strewn out in front of him. He shuffles closer in a borrowed pair of Daisy’s incredibly soft slippers--intentionally, yet very sloppily running his hand over the top of Jon's shoulders as he beelines for the kettle. 

If Jon stumbles over his next few words, who’s to notice?

There's a cigarette in Jon's free hand, weaving a little trail of smoke into the cramped space. Martin scrunches up his nose against the smell, eyeing the half full packet of the things laying on the table, surrounded by several stubs.

“Who’s that?” Martin asks, once the radio static peters away and Jon returns it to it’s stand. 

“Hm? Oh, that was Stoker.” Jon replies, distractedly, he takes the tea Martin proffers absentmindedly, no sugar this time. With his attention divided, Martin swiftly flicks the stubs--and cigarette packet--into the bin with no small amount of contempt. “I had him make a few purchases and he should be able to meet us soon.”

“And again, who’s that?” Martin asks, hoping the smile on his face isn’t as dopey as it feels as he watches Jon move about the front of the Safehouse, fiddling with the maps, and then turning to Martin with a confused expression that clears as quickly as it comes. 

“Oh, right. You haven’t met Tim.” Jon says, “He’s an associate of ours. He’s a bit of a pirate--though _do not_ let him know I said that. He just brings us supplies when we can’t come ashore.”

Martin frowns, “What would stop you from coming ashore? You didn’t have much of a problem going to Georgie’s.”

It’s the wrong thing to ask; Jon tenses, his mouth working, open, close, open, close. Finally it settles into a grimace. 

“It feels...bad.” Jon struggles, he sips the tea, and relaxes minutely. “You never stop feeling like you don’t belong. Not to mention just one wrong move, one slip, the wrong person trusted, and you’re stuck.”

“Well that’s ominous. What, like physically stuck? That can happen?” Martin asks, curious.

Jon’s face twists further, slipping into something darker. 

“Jon?”

Jon starts, slow, like he’s very carefully choosing his words. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we--selkies, that is--are rather protective of our skins.” he says, and Martin snorts a little under his breath, itching at his arm. 

“I didn’t know they were that important to you,” Martin says, and feels stupid the moment he says it.

“Of course they are, they’re our _skin,_ we are bound to it and vice versa.” Jon retorts. “It’s more then that, even. They’re powerful, they _change_.”

A crease appears between his brows as he struggles, clearly trying to find the words to elaborate. Martin can track the moment he gives up and moves on. 

“We can keep our skins on hand, or we can keep them somewhere safe. On one hand, you have control; you know where your skin is at all times, but you have to protect it. On the other, you might think it’s safer to leave it behind, hidden from all, but you never really know.” he pauses thoughtfully, then lets out a vicious laugh that has Martin’s skin crawling. “Funny we should be talking about this, I uh, met a person who was once very keen to skin me.”

“Jon, that’s _horrible_.” Martin exclaims.

“She really wanted it as a coat.” Jon shrugs nonchalantly. “She’s dead, now. Tim helped with that, honestly I probably should have owed him for that one, but he seems pretty insistent on helping us instead.”

Jon shakes his head in disbelief, like he cannot possibly fathom why others would want to help him. 

“So Tim comes to you then, so you don’t have to take the risk.” Martin concludes with only a small stutter. His brain is unfortunately stalled on the fact that Jon trusts him enough to talk about this at all.

Jon nods with a wry smile. “Precisely, yes.”

“Well,” Martin says, “I look forward to meeting your pirate liaison.” 

Jon groans. 

\--

It takes a day and a half for Tim to catch up with them, chugging along cheerfully next to the Safehouse in a sturdy looking boat with a little pirates’ flag hoisted in the air proudly. 

The man that departs from his boat to theirs--via a rather haphazard bridge that quakes under his weight--looks _happy_ ; delighted even, to see them. He’s taller then Jon, which makes him a close relative to a tree or a giant in Martin’s books. But where Jon is thin, Timothy Stoker is _huge_ and has a look of being constantly windswept; his braid threatening to escape its confines as it whips around in the air. 

Strangely, he sports the same pockmarked and snaking scars as Jon, and at nearly the same amount as well; sprawling from his exposed neck and chest down to his forearms that wrap Jon into a tight hug--despite his immediate protests. 

Overall he’s an incredibly attractive man, and Martin is horrified to find himself openly staring. 

“Good to see you too, boss.” Tim intones, pouting as Jon rips away from his clutches with a huff. 

“Anything from Basira?” Daisy asks, her face is passive yet her tone is eager, a glint in her eyes that’s nothing like the usual hunger. 

Tim hands over a small stack of paper to her, snorting as she immediately snatches them up, and disappears back into the cabin with only a quick--“Thanks. Don’t leave, I have more to give you.”--thrown over her shoulder.

He does a double take when he spots Martin, putting on a show of looking comedically between him and Jon with wide eyes. 

“I didn’t know we were graduating our crimes to kidnapping, boss!” the man says with cheerful mock surprise. 

Jon sputters, scandalized. “Martin isn’t being held against his will, he can leave if he wants to, _Tim_.”

Tim nods in an agreeable fashion, as one might do to a particularly young child, and then slides his eyes across to Martin, expectantly. 

“Oh! Yeah, not being kidnapped, It’s fine, _I’m_ fine.” Martin rushes to assure, “Though I’m pretty sure Jon tried to eat me the first time we met.”

“Oh don’t worry, he does that to everyone.” Tim says, waving his hand dismissively. 

“If you’re done attempting to ruin my reputation,” Jon cuts in sharply, “where’s Sasha?”

“The missus is on the hunt, though she told me to tell you she misses you and sends lots of hugs and kisses, etcetera.” Tim says jovially, “She also said to warn you that the Tundra was showing up on her radar again, but from the looks--” he gives a pointed look Martin’s way, “--you knew that already.”

“Hunting?” Jon questions, though he does not elaborate in the slightest. 

“ _Ye-up_.” Tim replies, and _also_ doesn’t elaborate.

“Sorry, who’s Sasha?” Martin asks. 

Tim grins, “Oh that’s my wife! She’s like these two, so she disappears a lot to frolic with her oceanic friends--Mr and Mrs Crab, Madam Kelp, and of course our dearest friends, Jonathan Sims and Daisy Tonner.”

“We haven’t seen her, Tim.” Jon says quietly, and Tim sighs. A tension bleeds out of him then, one so well hidden that Martin hadn’t noticed, but now it’s obvious to see the same brand of exhaustion that Jon and Daisy wear so well running through Tim. 

“It’s alright, she’s the smartest woman alive and she always turns up when I need her.” Tim smiles, strained. “Anyways, you probably want your food and stuff, let me go unpack it for you.”

Tim dashes across the makeshift bridge and begins unloading the cargo, lifting the assorted boxes up onto his shoulders without a second glance. He charismatically banters back and forth with Jon, with an obvious talent for bringing out the worst of Jon’s prickly wit, though he returns fire with ease; falling into a routine as easily as breathing, even cracking a few jokes with Daisy when she reemerges from the cabin to watch. 

“So, Tim.” Martin starts, at this point a little desperate to be included. “Have you known Jon and Daisy for long?”

“Oh yeah,” Tim replies, setting down a rattling box of tape recorders. “we met through Sasha, actually. Though it took a _while_ before any of us actually warmed up to each other. Jon was a _much_ bigger prick back then.”

“He was _worse?_ ”

“Ha! You’ll fit right in around here.” Tim says warmly, but the statement sits uneasily in Martin’s mind for some reason. He continues, unaware of Martin’s discomfort. “But really, Jon’s not so bad once he loosens up, it’s how I ended up the boat postman for everyone. Do you need toilet paper and petrol? Timothy Stoker, at your service! Ready at the drop of the hat for immediate boat shipments--as long as you’re close enough for me to reach, I’m not sailing out into the middle of nowhere again.”

_Again?_

“Long story, full of worms and intrigue.” Tim says mysteriously, which doesn’t really lessen Martin’s feeling of bewilderment. 

With an effortless turn, he chucks the remainder of the boxes onto the Safehouse’s deck, and claps his hands together. “So, I’m thinking of a nice family dinner as payment? We do have a lot of catching up to do, after all.” Tim waggles his eyebrows toward a visibly unimpressed Daisy. 

“That’s not your standard payment method.” Jon snaps, arching a brow.

“Jon, half the time you don’t have money to actually pay me.” 

“I can make drinks!” Martin pipes up and all three heads swivel to stare. “I-uh-I had a bar-tending job, for a bit.”

“We don’t have things for drinks.” Jon says. 

Martin grimaces, “We do, actually.”

Jon fixes him with an incredulous look, but Tim gives a loud whoop and startles him out of whatever he was going to say.

“Dinner and drinks then!” Tim cheers, casting a pleading expression to the yet to be convinced selkies. “C’mooooon, it’s been a while!”

“Fine, as long as Sims’ cooks.” Daisy shrugs, and Martin would have thought she was too engrossed in her letters to catch the betrayed glare thrown her way, but he can see the uneven tilt of her lips, matching the triumphant smile Tim sports. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @ anyone thinking about saying martin isn't qualified to be a bartender: no shit, thats the POINT.
> 
> also shout if there are any glaring mistakes, i just got back from a 10ish hour drive and madly scrambled to post this.


	8. — — —

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was a whole lot and took me ages to refine and im still not entirely happy with it. but it was a good lesson in writing so there's that.

Preparations for dinner are a strange affair. In the whirlwind of movement and chaos, everyone slots into place around him, like they were all given their cue cards and roles while Martin hovers in the middle of everything--the eye of the storm. 

He feels like a stranger, an _oogler_ watching Daisy and Tim banter, almost mean-spirited if not for their easy grins. He watches Jon stir the pots and pans, his face an intense look of concentration but even he stops to shoot some affectionate comment at the two, cleverly disguised as a scathing remark, of course. 

Jon catches him trying to shrink himself into a corner and immediately puts him in charge of the vegetables. Martin tries to not overthink chopping up a couple leafy green plants, but he nearly cuts himself about five times standing there elbow to elbow with Jon, caught up in the _painfully_ domestic atmosphere.

Tim pokes his way into the already crowded space to attempt some lighthearted food thievery and darts away with several baby carrots after Jon threatens to stab him. 

He sinks into a chair with his stolen goods, wearing a triumphant grin that creases the corners around his eyes.

“So,” Jon starts, wielding an expression that Martin can only describe as _aggressively_ curious, aimed directly at Tim. “how are things back home.”

Tim snorts, “Peachy.”

“Good, good.” Jon nods agreeably, shooting Tim a pointed look that he ignores. “And-and how is--”

“You can just ask, you know that right?” Tim exclaims, pointing with a baby carrot. “The Institute is still there, Johnny Machina is still pissed as can be. So not much has changed.”

Jon flinches, “Ah.”

He scurries back to the safety of the stove-top, head bent down to scrutinize the stir-fry with an iron tight grip on the spatula. It starts to sizzle and a waft of burning food hits Martin’s nose. He reaches over to turn the burner off and Jon springs back to life with a curse, frantically turning the food. 

Martin glances back at the table to find Tim’s expression turning sympathetic, and as he rises to help with the plates, he rests a hand on Jon’s back and murmurs something Martin can’t make out--though Jon seems to relax, however minutely. 

“Is everything alright?” he asks, and Tim gives Jon a subtle, sidelong look.

“It’s fine, really.” Jon sighs out, giving what Martin assumes he thinks is a reassuring smile. 

“What’s all that about then?” Martin asks, confused.

Tim glances at Jon again, this time with a raised eyebrow and decidedly less subtle. 

“Sometimes I... _ask_ Tim to look in--”

“Stalk. He means stalk--”

“-- _ask him_ to _very legally_ look in on some old friends.” Jon finishes. 

Martin squints at Jon suspiciously, taking in the tension pulling his shoulders up to his ears and the way Tim grimaces, looking aghast. “Is ‘old friend’ code for someone you actually hate?”

“Yes.” Daisy pipes up, not looking up from the letters she has spread over her side of the table, only partially paying attention to the potatoes she’s peeling into the bowl perched in her lap. 

“I used to work in an archiving position at what I _thought_ was a nice enough marine biology institution--yes, _that_ Institute--” he adds, when Martin shoots him an alarmed look, “--while my skin was, _ah_ , under someone else’s control.” Jon says carefully, “It turned out to be my employer that had had it, and things got...messy.”

“They still have wanted posters up for you, I think.” Tim says solemnly, and Martin really cannot tell if he’s being serious. “‘Depraved arsonist attempts to burn down historic Magnus Institute, culprit still at large!’”

Martin is mid flourish with the drinks and falters enough to splash the liquid onto the counter-top, though he hardly pays it any mind. “You were an _arsonist_ , Jon?” he exclaims.

“It was never that dramatic, there was a very small fire I will admit, but nothing that grand--also Agnes Fieldingstarted it, not me.” Jon insists. 

“A pity.” Daisy sneers, with a vicious swipe of her peeler, tearing a chunk of potato clean off and onto the floor. 

“There’s always next time.” Jon replies, and for the first time in a long time, Martin doesn’t like the smile that dons his face. 

Tim coughs, loudly.

“ _So!_ What did you do before all of this, Martin?” Tim asks, artfully changing the subject. “Got any interesting bar-tending stories?” 

Martin shrugs noncommittally, “Ah, no. That job lasted maybe a few weeks? I couldn’t manage it and take care of my mum at the time--so, no funny stories, sorry.” 

“Your mum?” Tim prompts.

“Oh, yeah, she’s not well, lives in a care home out in Devon.” Martin pauses, the cool arms of dread encircle him. “ _God,_ I don’t know what I’m going to tell her, she still thinks I’m working with the Tundra.”

“I’m sure she’d be more relieved that you’re alive when you get home.” Jon says, turning the food over and over in the pan, clearly not paying attention to his work, a frown working its way over his face like a dark cloud. 

“Uhm. Yeah. Maybe, I mean, probably.” Martin stammers, “I don’t really have much of a home to go back to really, kinda banked everything on the job working out and all.” 

He juggles all four drinks back to the table, only nearly dropping one once--he’s out of practice, so sue him. Tim grabs his and takes a huge gulp, while Jon just stares into the honey hued liquid thoughtfully. 

After that, Martin gently steers the conversation away from himself, and they settle in--somewhat awkward, though warmer now. With Tim sending him a kindly look that only makes him slightly uncomfortable, just a shade too close to pity. They’re cramped around the table, Tim had brought extra chairs from his boat and now they sit as four in the space made for _maybe_ two people and eat. 

It’s almost nice, with Tim’s arm brushing up against his shoulder as he animatedly bickers with Jon, delighting every time Martin finds his voice to quip something back--sometimes in Jon’s defense, mostly to egg Tim on. Daisy even _laughs_ , unabashedly, the tired lines of her face relaxing ever so slightly. 

It’s nice.

\--

It becomes quickly apparent that Jon is about as much of a lightweight as Martin is--so he spends his restless energy half shouting songs to the uninterested sky, with Martin a slumped and giggling audience to his wild, if tipsy efforts. 

“Jon! _Jon_ \--please, oh my god, you’re gonna fall.” Martin laughs as Jon swings around, precariously close to tipping off the side of the Safehouse, and spilling most of the contents from his cup onto the deck. 

He looks so carefree, unhindered by whatever haunting thing that usually dogs his steps. Jon’s face is split open in a smile, his sharp teeth on display unashamed, and the top buttons of his shirt are undone--which were quickly becoming the bane of Martin’s drunken existence.

“Good, maybe then he’ll shut up.” Daisy gripes, not even the slightest bit tipsy or drunk--in fact Martin is pretty sure she traded her cup out for orange juice at some point--and she watches the two of them as if they were particularly stupid children from her throne atop the kitchen counter. Tim giggles, half sitting on the floor, and in immediate danger of dumping the rest of his drink down his front. 

“I am a _very_ good swimmer, Martin.” Jon says, clearly aiming for scathing but getting lost somewhere around indigiant and fond. 

“That’s good, ‘cause I don’t know how ‘n I’d probably die trying to save you.” Martin says, humming happily when Jon slams into the chair next to him, completely oblivious to Jon’s sudden sputtering. 

Jon squints at him, “Oh, we are _so_ talking about _that_ later--”

“ _Martin_ , I only know sad things about you,” Tim drawls morosely, having lost his battle to stay upwards and now flat on his back on the floor. “I demand to know something unimportant and unsad, tell me immediately.”

Martin completely blanks. 

“Alright, um, I don’t have a middle name?” he tries. 

Tim’s head pops up, “Really?”

“Um...yeah. Sometimes when I write out my name I just make something up for it.” Martin cannot believe he feels self conscious about this. “Lukas probably still thinks my name’s Martin _K_ Blackwood.”

“What’s the K stand for.” Daisy demands.

“Dunno, it’s just a K, I guess.”

“That’s weird, Martin.” Jon says seriously.

“Wha-- _hey!_ Alright then, what’s _your_ middle name, _Jonathan?_ ” Martin demands, leaning forward onto the table to peer at Jon, warm faced and beautiful. He’s very glad there’s something underneath supporting him because looking at Jon is something like looking into the sun--he can’t think about that now, he’s moments away from spouting _poetry_ of all things and that would just be _embarrassing_.

Jon looks away, suddenly very interested with the bottom of his glass. “‘The Archivist.’”

Daisy kicks the back of his chair. “No, it’s not.” 

“Worth a try,” Jon shrugs, then waves a hand at Martin’s smug face. “Shut up, Martin.”

\--

Tim passes out halfway through a particularly long winded story about Sasha, and Daisy eventually abandons them to their drunken games, with a snoozing Tim Stoker in tow. If Martin were just a little bit more sober, he might have had enough sense to notice how terrible she looked; the unnatural tenseness of her shoulders and downward tilt of her mouth, the storm brewing in her eyes. But he doesn’t, and when she disappears from sight, the only thing Martin’s mind anchors to is Jon. 

Jon, washed in the dim lighting of the overhead lamp, moths haloing his head, aflutter in the night air. He is relaxed, and when Jon is relaxed, he allows himself to take up space he would otherwise shrink from. Now he drapes over his chair like something straight out of a renaissance portrait; his face warm, eyes dark and searching Martin’s curiously. 

Martin drinks deeply from his cup to hide his face, and covers the fact he chokes on it rather well, in his opinion. Their slurred game of truth for truth had dissolved into a rather specific line of questioning toward Jon after it became very apparent how much pop culture Jon had missed at sea.

“Jon, your knowledge--or lack of knowledge, really--of film is already surprisingly awful,” Martin laughs, his cheeks pleasantly warm with drink. “I just find it hard to believe you’ve never heard of _kissing_ , of all things.” 

Jon scowls, or tries to; he’s just as far gone as Martin is and the effect is more of a pout. 

“I know what it is!” he protests. “Theoretically.”

“Wha-- _theoretically?_ What does that mean?” Martin waves his arms wildly to accentuate his point, and tries not to feel embarrassed when Jon’s eyes follow his movements fondly, if confusedly. 

Jon’s scowl comes back in earnest though, and this time it’s properly sour. 

“I-I’m not entirely--well, I don’t usually prefer-hm.” Jon frowns, as if puzzled by his own thoughts. “You don’t have to tell me, I was just teasing.” Martin says. 

“No, it’s fine.” Jon sighs softly, a little of his tension melting away. “I just don’t, uh, _appreciate_ the typical kiss; mouth to mouth, that is. I think they’re a little gross--honestly, a lot gross. _Especially_ \--!”

He looms forward suddenly, swaying a little but looking energized and manic, as if this was a topic he frequently got into hot debate over. 

“-- _especially_ when there are far better means of expressing affection!” he says, his gaze unfaltering as it pins Martin in place, a glint of that familiar wildness returning to his eyes. 

Martin raises an eyebrow even as his heartbeat stutters. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

He clearly hadn’t been expecting to elaborate further, and he wilts slightly back into his chair, losing steam.

“A kiss applied to the forehead is...nice.” Jon says seriously, nodding with all the animation of a bobblehead. 

Martin laughs, “What, seriously?”

“And cheek kisses, too-- _yes_ , Martin, obviously.” Jon exclaims, bristling.

Martin raises his hands in surrender, smothering the smile that threatens to break across his face as Jon's ego bruises.

“Alright, alright, I’m sure you’re totally right.” he says reassuringly. 

Jon glowers at him suspiciously and retreats to the rim of his glass, unsure if Martin is still teasing him. His brow creases and his expression intensifies, and Martin watches him bemusedly as the gears turn and spin in his head, clearly in deep thought. 

Finally, he speaks up, “I’ll prove it.” 

Martin blanks, “What?”

“If you won’t accept verbal evidence then clearly you’re in need of evidence of some physical substance.” Jon continues, archily, as if the cold emotionless tone of his words masks the way his eyes immediately dart around the room, refusing to look at Martin anymore.

Meanwhile, Martin's grip of the situation flies straight out the window.

“What?” he says again. 

Jon grimaces, “You don’t--I just thought...” he trails off, though Martin swears he hears him mumble _it might be nice_. Wishful thinking. 

“No, no, no it’s um.” Martin scrambles, “It’s fine. Sure. Right.”

“Right.” Jon agrees.

Jon slides off his chair with surprising coordination for someone a couple drinks in--until he’s leaning _into Martin’s lap_ , his determined face inches from Martin’s. He can map every single scar and freckle on his cheeks like this, every tired line, every quirk and tilt of his lips--and now he’s staring at them, helplessly tracking Jon’s tongue as it darts quickly out to wet them. 

He looks so serious Martin almost laughs, but he daren’t shatter the tension around them, terrified it will startle Jon to his senses. He holds his breath, waiting.

Martin has been kissed a few times, not nearly as many as some of his peers but, well, that came with the territory of being _him_ \--undesirable, and he always knew he’d be inexperienced in that aspect of his life. The kisses varied, none of them groundbreaking, but none of them awful, so he can’t complain. Almost all of them felt like a lead up to something; the next step in the motions, usually sex, some times just making out in some classmate’s bedroom while they pretended to study--back when he had such things to worry about. 

Jon kisses him, or tries, his lips smack into the side of his nose and Martin lets out a breathy laugh that's hopeless even to his ears. 

He rights himself, grumbling, and presses a kiss to Martin's cheek, chaste and sweet.

It shouldn’t feel like much of anything, it’s not rightly a proper kiss anyways, though it feels like it burns a hole through his skin, like a brand to his flesh. Martin inhales sharply, and reigns in his hands where they had jumped up to hold onto Jon's skinny wrists, heart beating painfully loud in his ears. 

Jon pulls back just to repeat the gesture on his other cheek, humming a contented little noise under his breath. When he lifts up and plants another kiss to the center of Martin's forehead, he can feel Jon's smile against his skin. 

He sits back a little, meeting Martin's eye with a strange expression, he looks just as off kilter as Martin feels. 

“Oh.” Martin says, intelligently. The spell breaks. 

The gentleness in his face wipes away and Jon shrugs in the most aggressively defensive way Martin has ever seen, untangling himself from Martin to flop back into his chair. He mourns the loss immediately, tries to keep the pout off his face.

“I believe I have provided ample proof to support my case.” Jon concludes cagedly. He doesn’t miss the way Jon's fingers come up to touch his lips thoughtfully. 

He still speaks so stiffly, like he can't help but barricade himself in thorniness, a habit turned reflex. Martin thinks there's something endearing to that, but it might just be the alcohol preying on his infatuation.

Martin stutters on a laugh that’s strangled. “Oh, yeah, _definitely,_ yep--I, uh, just not what I was expecting.” 

“What--were you hoping to teach me the tantalizing human temptations of the flesh?” Jon drawls.

It's a tease, it's a harmless poke and Jon doesn't know he's stuck his finger directly into the proverbial hornets nest of the problem. 

Martin blushes, he screws up his face at Jon’s choice of words and decides to let the alcohol make him brave. “Eugh, definitely not if you’re gonna say it like that.”

Jon blinks, and Martin prays he hasn't gone too far, sees the all too familiar gears whirl back into life as Jon processes the statement. But then he smiles crookedly, suddenly just as awkward, huffing a laugh under his breath. 

“Humans are so predictable.” Jon snorts.

Martin sputters uselessly, pretending to be indignant beyond words for a moment. He knows a deflection when he sees one--a _rejection_. 

“Yeah, yeah, make fun of the human and his _emotions._ ” he mumbles, scrubbing at his face ineffectually. “Well, this human liked that ver-very much, so-um-yeah--thanks--?”

“You can stay here, you know.” Jon says abruptly, looking possibly everywhere but Martin. 

Martin blinks uselessly, “What?”

Jon sighs, and his hands start up the nervous dance they’re so prone to. 

“What I mean to say is you can stay here, with me--and Daisy.” he adds hastily, “You said you had nowhere to go home to at dinner, and-well, you’re already here so-so I thought...stay.”

Martin _stares_.

“Only if you want to! Obviously-I can't make you stay here, but I'd like it...” Jon trails off, looking miserable. “...if you did.” 

Martin doesn’t move--couldn’t even if he tried; he can’t make sense of what he’s just heard, he doesn't even blink or breathe--but he wants to leap up and pull Jon back in, and-and hug him, kiss him however he likes, until he's senseless, until he understands what he does to Martin. He wants to embrace this quaking strange person and teach him calm. He wants to say yes, can feel the words rear up in his throat and demand to be let out.

He wants a home, he wants to grow.

A drifting breeze cuts through his thoughts, cold and real.

“I’ll um, keep that in mind.” Martin says, and his voice sounds so very small, hollow. “I’m sorry-”

“I think it’s time to go to bed.” Jon cuts him off, and Martin can’t bear to look at him now and see the disappointment waiting for him. He stands, and with gentle hands and unsteady legs, leads Martin toward the cabin.

\--

Martin is pulled from his happily dreamless sleep in the night getting lightly kicked in the shin. 

He blinks blearily, his brain screams for his eyes to shut and let the welcoming darkness renevelop him in its embrace, but he fights the sleepiness back and turns his head to find his rude attacker. 

It’s Jon. 

And he’s having a nightmare, again. 

Martin scrubs his eyes, chasing the remains of his sleep away. Jon twitches frantically, his legs shoot out again, bounce off Martin’s thighs and lightly catch the furs, trapping them. This seems to cause more alarm in whatever dream has sunk its terrible claws into Jon's subconscious, because he fights harder to free himself from his bonds and lets out a strangled groan. 

“ _Shhh_ , s’alright.” Martin mumbles, barely a whisper.

Martin forces himself to sit up, and begins the slow, sluggish process of untangling Jon’s legs as carefully as he can. He slumps back down next to Jon when he’s done, and finds Jon's hands reaching for him, his face still pinched with worry or fear, but asleep. 

Jon finds his way to push up as close as possible to him; practically on top of Martin, but he hesitates, half his arm outstretched to touch but frozen. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, every other time he’s comforted Jon from his nightmares it had been strictly hand holding while laying deathly still, pretending to sleep until Jon drifted back off. He _knows_ Jon despises to be cornered and enclosed, even if he wouldn’t say it outright. What if he made it worse just by touching him?

He looks around with a touch of desperation, and finds Daisy is watching him, Her eyes reflect in the moonlight, making her appear sharper--dangerous. They steadily track his movements as his hand hovers over Jon's sleeping face. 

An involuntary fissure of fear shoots through him.

Her arm emerges from the darkness, taking his unresistant wrist in her gentle grip and maneuvering him until his own hand is cupped around the back of Jon's neck, cradling him close but not suffocatingly so. Jon shifts somehow even closer to him with a contented sigh, his face smoothing out into something that might be considered peaceful. 

“ _Thank you._ ” Martin whispers sincerely. Jon's skin is soft and warm under his palm, his heavy curls just brushing Martin's fingertips. It’s overwhelming and he doesn’t know what to do with the ache in his chest.

He hears the rustle of Daisy’s hair as she nods against the pillow, and the glow of her eyes vanishes. 

Martin drifts back off like that, somewhat fitfully, Daisy and him creating a loose cocoon around Jon's curled up form, Tim somewhere at the bottom of the bed; snoring and spread eagle by their ankles. 

\--

"Martin," Jon begins, with the gravest of tones, steepling his hands in front of him so he looks like someone’s mildly disappointed english professor. “I'm going to need you to look me in the eye and tell me you were joking." 

"Jon-" 

"Please, say you weren't serious." 

"Listen-" 

"’Oh yes, I'm Martin _‘K’_ Blackwood! I can't swim so I'm going to do the normal and sane thing and apply for a job aboard a _cargo ship_ that crosses the _ocean_ \--which I can't swim in.’" Jon says, pitching his voice into mockery of Martin’s, instead of just mimicking it perfectly. 

Martin stalls slightly. Frankly he hadn’t been expecting the conversation to turn this way. 

They haven’t talked about the other night, though Martin can’t shake the way Jon had looked, disheveled and honest, his eyes helplessly kind, even while so nervous. Jon hasn’t said anything to suggest he remembered it, or perhaps he hasn't brought it up because it meant nothing. Just a brief lapse in judgement aided by alcohol, a regret he won't bring to light. Was he hoping to spare them both the awkwardness of his rejection? 

If that’s what he wants, who is Martin to broach the subject? To derail their clever little dance around each other, stepping on toes with every other turn. 

"Listen, not everyone got to grow up in a lovely ocean adjacent village, some of us grew up in London-" - _and didn't have the time nor the money for things as silly as beachside pastimes--not with your mum so frail and sick, that would be selfish, Martin._

Martin clears his throat, takes a breath or two, and adds; “Besides, I know how swimming works, _theoretically_.”

Jon hums noncommittally, gazing out across the endless sea and he has that look on his face again, the one that reeks of dangerous ideas; concentrated and determined in equal measures. 

“I’ll teach you then.” Jon says. 

Martin balks, “Sorry what?”

“I’m obviously the most qualified, how hard can it be?”

“That’s not exactly encouraging.”

Jon scoffs, “I won’t let you drown, Martin.” 

His words float in the air between the two of them, heavy and _painfully_ uncomfortable. Martin almost wants to bite back with something along the lines of ‘ _isn’t that part of your entire nature?_ ’ and from the looks of Jon’s face, he knows it.

“You don’t have to,” Jon says quietly, “I want you to be safe--and feel safe here, around me.” 

“I’m not afraid of you,” Martin replies, with a forced air of casualness as to not startle him. 

“Maybe you should be.”

“ _Hey,_ don’t start with that.” Martin scolds.

Jon nods, but in a way that suggests he’s humoring him at most, but he doesn’t say anything more, so Martin lets the subject drop.

“Right then. Are you coming too, Daisy?” Martin asks, pointedly ignoring Tim, who cradles a cup of very cold coffee in his hands, his hungover thousand yard stare burning holes into the undeserving tabletop. 

Daisy looks up at him, with one headphone pulled away so she can hear him, blaring some show she tries to tune into every night or so on their less then stellar radio. Her expression clouds over, like she’s conflicted, but eventually she slowly shakes her head. 

Martin nods kindly and does not pry. 

“Well, how do we do this?” he turns to Jon, who startles and looks away quickly.

“Just a moment.” he murmurs, darting off.

Jon returns with his skin from the cabin, and lays it gently over his shoulders like a very strange cape. He wraps it around his arms as he drops from a standing position into a crouch, and then a kneel. Then Martin has to stop watching; as his eyes cross and a splitting headache starts marching a beat against his skull. 

He blinks very quickly several times, and when he looks again, Jon is no longer human. Instead the beautiful, long body of what might pass as a normal seal if he squints sits upon the deck, passively regarding him. 

Jon jerks his angular head toward the water with an obvious ‘ _well come on then_ ’ motion, and slides--a little gracelessly--off the side of the Safehouse. He leaves a pile of destroyed clothes in his wake. 

Martin frowns, he had quite liked that shirt on Jon.

“Damn idiot should have changed in the water instead of showing off.” Daisy snorts.

Martin waits for a moment, then realizes he’s just expected to jump right in. 

“What just like that?” Martin muses aloud.

A wave of water rushes up to smack him squarely in the chest. As he stands there swearing, two golden eyes glower at him.

“Alright! Jeez, no need to get tetchy.” Martin admonishes. 

He starts to strip down, pausing when he’s down to boxers and t-shirt. He holds the hem of his shirt between his fingers. He takes a shuddering breath and glances back toward Jon, who has very kindly turned away, and steels himself as he finally wiggles the shirt over his shoulders. 

The air is chilly, but the setting sun is still high enough in the sky to keep him from freezing, though he can feel goosebumps rising across his skin that have nothing to do with the temperature. Martin very resolutely does not look down at himself; he doesn’t need to see the bulk of _him_ , too much soft skin and twin scars across his chest that still look foreign even all these years later. 

He sits at the edge of the boat, dipping his feet into the frigid water. Jon circles around him, dipping under and above the surface periodically. The brush of his smooth skin against Martin’s legs sends shivers down his spine.

“Jon, it’s freezing!” Martin complains loudly, exaggerating the clatter of his teeth.

He isn’t sure if seal monsters can roll their eyes, but Jon puts in a valiant effort.

Behind him Daisy jeers; “Don’t be a baby.” and he flips her off without turning around.

Jon flits to and fro around him as he finally eases into the water, keeping an iron grip on the side of the Safehouse with one hand, while the other hovers in the air above Jon’s lithe form. He kicks his legs and he thinks he’s doing a damn good job of keeping himself afloat, _thank you very much_ , but he stalls on what to do after that. 

Jon at least has some idea of where to go from there, nudging Martin’s arm until he hesitantly rests it across Jon’s shoulders. Martin can _feel_ the power under his skin, raw muscle and determination that propels both of them away from the safety of the boat to the open water. 

A little thrill of fear shoots through him--some less then quiet part of his mind repeats the feeling of sinking over and over again, and he wraps his other arm around Jon, tightening his hold. But Jon is steady and calm beneath him, and he’s careful to keep Martin high enough above the water to breathe. 

Martin slowly starts to relax, warmed by Jon’s excessive body heat. The water sings around Jon, welcoming and loving, and that feeling is extended to him; enthralling and crooning wordless sweet promises just under the wake. 

Every so often he feels a ripple of _excitement-adoration-contentment_ shudder through him, seemingly from nowhere, and he frowns. 

Jon makes it difficult to focus on it with his _constant_ badgering. Even in his mute seal form he finds a way to pester and berate Martin; pushing his arms out, bumping him out until he’s in the right position, always hovering near. He tries to be a good student, distracted as he is.

_Care-contentment-happiness--_

His mind does start to wander though. 

Martin submerges and despite the harsh sting of saltwater, he blinks. 

Jon’s lovely eyes are right there waiting for him, blurry yet watching critically and a little bit confused, like he’s trying to understand Martin and his strange impulses. 

He lets his fingers touch the tip of Jon’s nose. Martin smiles and air bubbles out from between his teeth as Jon goes cross eyed to follow the movement. They travel down the length of his jaw, feeling the strength and muscle, all there to rend and tear and bite but still under Martin’s curiosity. 

The rush of emotion sweeps through him again-- _adoration-confusion-concern-nervousness_ \--too much to untangle in the chaos of it. But unmistakably flowing from where his hands make contact with the beautiful skin beneath his palms.

He turns Jon’s words over in his head-- _we’re bound to it--_ and his lungs start to burn for air, but he stays for just a moment longer, overcome with a need he can’t quite place, though it consumes him to the core. 

\--

The chill of the air hits his wet skin, drawing shivers and goosebumps. He quickly wraps his abandoned jacket around his shoulders--turning his thoughts over and over in his head, he _had_ to say something to Jon about what he had just felt--and doesn't notice when something falls from the pocket until it hits the soft wood floors with a dull thunk.

He glances down and there are the metal knuckles, small and accusing. 

Jon pauses, still draped in his skin and dripping saltwater all over the deck. His eyes follow Martin’s--a bolt of panic shoots down his spine and he all but lunges to scoop them up. 

"I'm sorry, I forgot I still had them--I’ll get rid of them." he babbles, just as Jon blurts; "You should keep them." 

Martin’s voice catches in his throat, and his next words are strangled. "What? _Why?_ " 

"Well, you never know. Better safe then sorry." Jon says, “You should have some form of protection against-well, things like me.”

Martin doesn’t miss the subtle hatred in his voice, the _loathing_ , Martin wonders when he learned it. What had twisted his heart so cruelly against himself. Was it the killing, was it the lack of control, being torn to and fro, passing from hand to hand as monsters stole his skin from him? Or was it simply just the grate and drag of life, something he had learned with time? 

He flips the heavy metal around in his hands a couple times, testing its weight. 

Then he winds his arm back and chucks it as far as he can. It hits the water with a near imperceivable splash, which is immediately drowned out by Jon’s surprised sputtering. 

“Martin?” he looks completely thrown off, Martin is pleased to note. It’s a good look on him. 

“I don’t see why I’d need them,” Martin shrugs with a smile. “I trust you, Jon.” 

Jon stares, his mouth agape. 

“But I’m not human.” Jon says. 

“So?”

“I’ve hurt people, I’ve _killed_ people.” he tries. 

“But you stopped.” Martin reminds him. 

“You’re in danger because of me.”

Martin raises an eyebrow, “Last time I checked, it was Martin Blackwood that signed a contract to work aboard the Tundra, not one Jonathan Sims.”

Jon scowls, but he’s looking at him; _really_ looking at him and it feels like being put under a spotlight. Martin’s never been very good at acting in front of a crowd and least of all Jon. And it feels like all his secrets are there for him to see, every doubt and thought he’s ever had, every feeling he’s ever ached over. 

Can Jon see that sliver of his heart he’s carved out just for him? 

“You are a strange person.” Jon mutters, and his gaze lifts as he clears his throat loudly. 

Martin smiles tightly, “Is that good?”

“ _You_ are good.” Jon says, then freezes, wide eyed. “I mean. Well.” 

He doesn’t elaborate.

“Why does it hurt you then?” Martin asks, with a loud clearing of his throat. Giving him an out, a way to ease the tension around them, give him the time to bury those unsightly things building up in his heart. “The metal, I mean. Is it just because it’s silver or iron--? Are you like a faerie?”

“Oh, so he knows about _the fae_ but not _selkies_." Jon mumbles, “I always thought of it as an allergic reaction." Jon says with a stubborn shrug, and Martin snorts.

“Still holding onto the skeptic outlook?” Jon tenses defensively, “No! It just makes sense...doesn’t it?” 

_I could love you_ , Martin thinks. _If you would give me the chance_.

He doesn’t say that, nor any of the other hopeless little desires desperately pressing against his teeth, crowding around with every unspoken confession he keeps hidden away. 

\--

He dreams of a beach. 

The sky is clouded over, but it feels calm and gentle, and it’s quiet. Some part of him knows that it’s always been like this--will always be this crystallized moment of tranquility. There’s a mist blanketing the water, distant enough that Martin doesn’t think twice about it. 

He lets his feet carry him to the shoreline, though it takes him longer then he thinks it should, like the sand under him was stretching out, but nevertheless, he arrives. The water laps greedily at his socks, though it never makes contact, soundless and utterly lonesome. 

“ _Why did you run away, Martin?_ ” a voice chides, _familiar_ , so softly it may as well be a part of the wind and waves. 

Martin sighs, breathes in the salt and cold deeply. “I don’t know.”

“ _Don’t you know you belong here?_ ” silence, for a moment, then--“ _He can’t save you_.”

“He did it before.” he protests, though his words are immediately swallowed in the fog. 

“ _Aren’t you tired of being a burden to him? He’s afraid because of you_.”

Of course he _knows_ , he sees it in countless cigarettes and restless nights, murmured prayers hidden under his breath. How could he have missed it?

Any response he might have is strangled out of him, the fog lunging forward for the kill. His vision blurs white and he stumbles backward involuntarily. But it doesn’t _hurt_ , there is no thrill of fear, just a gradual sort of acceptance. The numbness follows, heavy and thick like tar. 

He wants to sit down and sleep, he thinks. As his knees give out and he feels the unusually rough drag of coarse sand supporting him, like glass digging into his flesh--his thoughts slip away. All his lingering fears of the world outside dissipate; he forgets his worries, he forgets the ache in his chest, where a festering infatuation in the heart had grown infectious. A muse without a face stares back at him.

And he doesn’t mind. 

Then something is touching him, so hot it could be molten heat. It scalds the memories back into his mind, the fear rushing back in to fill the void and he wants to scream with agony but there is no air to draw breath.

Martin tries to drag air through his screaming lungs, but fog envelopes him, as if unwilling to relinquish him. He grapples frantically with thin air and after a moment of pure terror, it fades but does not dissipate. He sucks in several, shaking breaths and blindly reaches out, his vision still a blur, and his hands are caught by two others. 

“Thank goodness,” Jon gasps, and suddenly all Martin can see is his face-- _glinting eyes and shining teeth_ \--as he’s pulled into a tight embrace. Behind him, Daisy shuffles quietly out of sight.

Bile rises in his throat, and he desperately wants to pull away, but at the same time he doesn’t. The urge doesn’t feel like his own, but the contact makes his skin _crawl._

“You started fading again, I-I’m sorry, Martin.” Jon whispers into his hair, his hands fluttering around nervously, petting Martin’s arms, his hair, holding and touching and leaving that terrible trail of heat where he makes contact. It _hurts_. 

Martin rolls away so fast the room blurs into static before his eyes. The next second he’s by the cabin door and Jon is frozen on the bed, looking shocked and scared and--too much.

He tries to steady his breathing, pacing the deck in frantic circles in the pitch darkness. The fog had come for him again and it would keep coming, he _knew_ it would. How much longer could they hope to outrun this? How much longer could he stand to see it drive his friends out of their minds with fear? 

He stops walking as he exhales and sees the breath curl in the air in front of him. 

Only then does he notice the deck is covered in a thick layer of fog, but it doesn’t stop there, it consumes _everything_ in sight. Martin looks for the moon, even this late, he should still be able to see where sky meets ocean, but all there is a cloying mist. It doesn’t part to let the Safehouse’s lights pierce it, and he can’t even hear the water, just deathly quiet. 

_Jon_. Martin tries to shout, but it comes out as a whimper of fear. He jumps back from where the fog reaches for him, smacking into one of the plastic chairs and sending it clattering to the ground.

It must be loud enough to alert them, because seconds later Daisy is there at his left and Jon on his right. Anything they might’ve said dies away, surveying the eerie fog that had claimed their home. Jon steps forward, almost curiously, and Martin wants to shout at him to stay close but he can’t breach the silence. 

The fog draws toward him and retracts just as quickly, like it had been repulsed by Jon’s very being. It’s wrong, to see others in the fog. It sets off all the alarms in Martin’s head, a constant screaming din of wrong, _wrong, wrong, wrong._

Jon turns back to them, and his voice is a gunshot through the night air. “Where’s Tim?”

There is no response besides Daisy, who growls lowly in her throat, as if in defiance. She reaches for Martin and drags him bodily behind her. He bites his lip as the white hot pain sears through him from where she touches him. 

“Hello? _Hello?_ ” a voice pierces the fog, and Martin jumps, barely strangling down a scream. It sounds...confused, smooth and feminine in tone, yet strangely stilted. The fog parts for just a moment, and Martin catches sight of a smooth skin breaching the waves before it dives out of sight. For some reason it has all the hairs on his arms raising on end. 

Daisy tenses next to Jon, who gasps in surprise, “ _Sasha?_ ” 

“Hello? Show yourself!” the voice cries, stuttering as if on a loop. 

“Sasha! We’re here, what happened--what are you _doing_ out here?” Jon calls again, scrambling for his seal skin and he hurries his way to the edge of the boat on unsteady feet in his haste. 

“ _I see you._ ”

“Jon don’t-!”

Daisy is a second too late. 

There is a blast of noise--a horn, so loud it shocks him in place. A net shoots out from the surrounding fog, and Jon goes down with a shocked yell; he staggers, trying to find his footing, and with one panicked look to Daisy and Martin, falls backward into the sea. 

“Jon!” Martin cries in horror, but Daisy is already bestial and _furious_ as she leaps after him.

There is another horn blast, jarring. White light, everywhere, all encompassing.

And he’s alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how'd you like that emotional whiplash?
> 
> also i'm ace and i wrote jon's opinions on typical romantic gestures off of my own opinions, if anyone was curious/concerned. i really like all flavors of ace jon but this is the type i default to.


	9. • • •

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> heads up theres a lot of gore and injury in this chapter.

The Tundra is many things, and in this moment, it is _empty_ , barren. The beach is empty too--wait no.

No, it’s not. 

He’s on the Tundra, _he’s on the Tundra--_

There’s a figure, far down by the water’s edge, where a pier might have once rested but is now collapsed, petrified wood and nails, being devoured by the tide with each unrelenting pull. This stranger is no more then a silhouette of a long coat, pushed by a silent breeze, and Martin doesn’t feel like trying to move to get a better look, he’s so tired. Should that frighten him?

_The Tundra is huge, and he should be able to see the crew as they work, but he can’t._

There is no jolly laughing or whisper of life below the pristine decks of white. There is only a horrible growling, a monster has taken residence under the stairs. He doesn’t want to go down there, but he doesn’t want to stay on the beach--the deck, exposed to the open air-- _You don’t go above deck at night_ , he remembers this.

The double image swims in his vision, ship and beach; in both realities he is alone. He squeezes his eyes shut, panic is beginning to slam against the barricade of numbness in his mind, screaming a soldiers’ song of instinct; _you are not safe, you are not safe, you are not safe_.

And through it all, a voice. 

"--honestly I'm a little sad to have this happen. You’ve helped me a great deal in the past, isn't that funny? After all, isn't drowning at sea--without anyone to care, without a soul to notice--so _very_ lonely in itself?" 

Something growls, low and angry.

Martin opens his eyes, and the twin realities fade, until he is surrounded by metal walls, hissing pipes and grimy porthole windows. 

The Tundra. 

He’s on the floor, his limbs sluggish to react and heavy, as if he’s being held down by something. He looks around slowly, his vision still tilting and swaying like the ship around them. He spots Daisy and Jon, both in various degrees of restraints and injury. Jon is nursing an oozing bite mark set into his shoulder, biting his lip against the pain. His gaze flicks to Martin, and there is relief coloring his face behind those wild, unhinged eyes. 

Standing over all three of them is Peter Lukas, captain of the Tundra, looking impeccable as always. 

“I’ve been a gracious host to your whims, but even my patience has a limit. Surely you didn’t think you could be so bold as to take one of my crew from right under my nose?” Lukas says softly, his eyes seem paler then Martin remembers, more white then blue.

“I was rather hoping it’d be that simple.” Jon replies tersely, his back bending low as if about to strike, even as the shackles binding his wrists hiss where they shift against his skin, leaving the flesh mottled and discolored, like a brand. 

There are no shackles or bonds holding Martin down though, and yet he cannot find it in himself to move, not even when his stomach turns sickeningly at the sight of Jon's wounds. _Stay down, don’t fight it anymore, rest._

Lukas tuts, almost fretfully. “Now don’t be too hasty, we both know how your kind reacts to that stuff.”

Daisy lets out a gasping, frenzied growl, “I’m gonna kill you, old man.” 

“You can certainly try, Miss Tonner.” 

And try she does, lunging forward with malice in her eyes and hatred in her heart. To Lukas’ credit, he doesn’t flinch much, she gets a scant three feet before the bonds prove too much pain to handle, and she collapses back to the floor, her breath hissing out of her.

“Stop! Stop! Daisy, please.” Martin croaks, his voice feeling scratchy and painful as if he had swallowed nails. 

“ _You can’t put me in a cage_.” Daisy huffs and snarls, she tries to stand again, even as the metal _sings_ and _burns_ and _cuts_ into her arms, exposing her flesh and blood. Jon jerks in her direction before he thinks better of it. 

“Daisy-” Jon warns, and his voice is so _afraid_. 

_Your fault, your fault, you did this, Martin._

“ _Hello?_ ” 

Martin seizes up, feeling as if a bucket of ice had been thrown over him. A hulking form lumbers past him though he dares not turn his head to look, its body so close he can feel the heat and smell the stench coming off it, sour and _rotten_. 

The thing that is not Sasha crawls out of its wretched skin in a cracking of limbs, like it had been too large for itself. It might have been a woman, at some point, but the creature that rises is wrong. Its body twitches in minute spasms, elongated skin literally dripping off the bone and muscle, and its lips stretch wide in a smile, baring its many sharp teeth. 

The creature--the _selkie_?--does not pull entirely out of the wreckage of skin, it _clings_ as it moves and it sings under its breath, the same mantra over and over; “ _I see you, I see you, I see you._ ”

“What is that thing,” Daisy gags, her revulsion clear on her face. 

“Not sure, but I think she likes you.” Lukas says, enthused, then to the creature he says, “You can have the woman, but the Archivist and the marked one aren’t to be touched, understood?”

“ _Yes, yes, yes. I’m Sas-_ sss _-ssssha, it’s me, your_ friend _, Sasha._ ” the creature says, and Martin flinches as it suddenly lurches closer--

And the wall to Martin's right explodes.

Martin is knocked flat on his back and there are stars blinking behind his eyes, ears ringing. He raises to his elbow with a groan, because the terror of having that _thing_ still in the room with them will not allow him to pass out. He can’t see Lukas anywhere, and for one vicious moment he hopes the man is buried under the heavy debris, impaled and dead. 

The wall is no more then an ugly hole, with punched out piping and plaster still crumbling apart from the rock of the explosion. There is a big bearded man standing in the aftermath, built like a mountain and wearing spotted pajama bottoms and nothing else. 

“Hi honey, I'm home!” Tim grins, covered in ashy plaster and wielding a remote with a _comically_ large red button in one hand and a lumpy package with C-4 scrawled along it in the other. He is only slightly smoldering. 

He races forward, dodging around the mess of limbs that must be the not-Sasha to fumble with the restraints holding Jon and Daisy. 

“ _Tim!?_ Why do you have _bombs_ \--Oh just leave it!” Jon hisses with pain, jerking away from Tim’s hands. “Get Martin.” 

Tim just manages to get Martin on his feet as the not-Sasha creature staggers to its own, one of its eyes round and dilating furiously, the other drips down the side of its face. It pants, hot breath splaying out in a cloud as it rounds on them, gnashing teeth and wicked sharp claws longer then Daisy’s. 

“Oh _fuck_ , what do we do?” Martin cries, his legs shake and threaten to give out from under him, and the world spins disorientingly. 

“ _Nrgh, you don’t--fffucking touch them_.”

His attention snaps to Daisy, who strains and strains desperately against her bonds, until her breath screams out of her and Martin feels sick and wrong. The metal has no choice but to submit under her strength, and with a last agonizing snap--a ragged gasp from Daisy, her head bent low to the ground as her shoulders tremble and Jon _pleads_ for her to stop, _please stop_ \--it falls away. 

“Run! Just run, _now!_ ” Jon yells, kicking backward on his heels, scrambling away from the monster-- _and_ Daisy.

Martin struggles against Tim and his common sense; trying desperately to get back to them. But Tim has a tight grip on the collar of his shirt and he’s yanked away. The last thing he sees is Daisy throwing herself toward the not-Sasha, her body reduced to nothing more then a jagged line of coiled power, _fight_ , no room for flight.

Then the world turns to dizzying corridors; the creak and shriek of metal around them seems louder then ever, and now its melody is accompanied by Daisy’s inhuman screams echoing after them. 

“ _Where on earth did you come from!?_ ” Martin shouts, trying very hard to keep up with Tim's long strides as they barrel up the stairs, desperate for the glimpse of moonlight. 

“Woke up on my boat before the fog really started to roll in--” Tim throws over his shoulder, “--I couldn't see the Safehouse anymore though, that was _weird!_ I was just gonna back off enough to signal you and almost ran right into the bloody Tundra!”

He yanks Martin down another corridor, and he swears they should have reached the main deck by now but there’s yet another set of stairs several feet ahead of them. 

“I couldn’t just _leave_ you guys, so here I am!” Tim grins, slightly unhinged by fear as something from below _howls,_ and the sound of scraping gets closer, metal bending under impossible strength, and Martin smacks face first into his back because _Tim stops moving--_

“ _Tim, go!_ ” Martin hisses, frantically grabbing at his sleeves. 

Tim actually starts to walk _back,_ back into the hull, back toward Daisy and that thing. His face is an indescribable mess of pain, as though his soul had just been ripped from his body, contorted with grief and a brand of fear Martin cannot place. He chokes.

“That sounded like--”

“It’s not her! It's not Sasha, I swear, Tim _, please!_ ” Martin pleads, but he doesn’t know--he doesn’t care if it really was her. He tugs harder, and Tim finally starts moving again as the creature slams into the stairs below them. 

The first hit of shocking cold air punches the wind from his lungs and he staggers, nearly falling to his knees as they shake. He stares back at the stairs behind them, waiting for the moment that the creature lunges from the shadows, screaming with teeth and claw, but it doesn’t come. 

Seconds tick by, neither Jon nor Daisy appear.

There is only terrible silence. 

The deck is barren, though Martin isn’t surprised. He swivels around desperately, searching for the first hint of fog curling up and over the sides of the ship. Tim darts around him, oblivious to his paranoia, and starts to tie rope off the railing of the ship. 

“C’mon.” Tim jerks his shoulder toward the ropes, already moving to rappel downward, his face a stony mask. 

Martin doesn’t move an inch, "Jon and Daisy are still down there."

Tim's face cracks, then hardens, his mouth is a thin line. 

"Martin-"

"They're _still_ down _there_." 

"Martin, we'll come back for them, I _promise_." Tim lies, "Come on, there’s nothing we can do, we have to go now--"

He reaches out to grab Martin's arm, but it passes right through flesh and bone like air and Tim recoils back, stricken.

They both stare at each other, Tim begins to speak, hurried and with a dawning sense of horror breaking across his face. Martin looks at him, but he isn’t _seeing_ the person he had hoped to become friends with, he sees a stranger. There is no reason for him to care anymore. 

Martin steps back, the crash of waves and the stranger’s shout fades. He turns around and finds the fog there waiting, and for a moment, he lets it have him. It engulfs him a gentle hold, and he surrenders. The fog promises him comfort, safety from the horrors outside and he aches for it. 

He has to protect the others first. So it will wait for him, it has been waiting for some time.

He doesn’t know the way through, surrounded and filled with fog, there is no path to follow. But he can still feel the steps under his feet, the brush of the cold wall when he reaches out. He is blind, but not quite doomed. 

Not yet.

\--

The act of pulling himself out of the fog hurts. 

He rips through the gentle embrace and it turns savage and taunt. The fog digs into his skin like snares or barbed wire, determined to keep him. The first time he tried he almost collapsed, driven out of his mind by a heady concoction of numbed pain and fear. 

But he does it often, surfacing to find himself in completely random parts of the ship; the captain’s cabin, storage rooms, the mess hall--thankfully abandoned of all life--and so on. He thinks he’s on the right track, he can hear the horrors growing closer, thundering away beneath him. 

Martin is not a brave man, he’s sure of this, the sheer violence in those echoing noises have his throat closing up and he wants to give up dearly, but he won’t. Not while Jon is down there too.

He steels himself, and descends stairs he had run up not minutes ago--or had it been hours? He has no grasp on time anymore--back into the belly of the beast. 

His attention is caught by a different sound, loud and frantic. A thumping beat that should sound completely foreign to his ears but _of course_ he knows it. 

A heart beat. 

In this state of loneliness, of course the sign of another living being close to him would be loud, all the easier to avoid, all the easier to run away. But he fights against it, rounds a doorway and gasps.

Jon huddles in a corner, almost completely hidden, bleeding and gasping for air. His hair has fully broken free of it’s constraints and fans out wildly in all directions, slick with sweat where it is stuck to his face. The shackles around his wrists hang like morbid bracelets, no longer locking them together but burning lines into the flesh with every twitchy movement. 

Martin surges away from the fog as quickly and loudly as he dares, and Jon jumps, mouth agape--whether to scream or not, he doesn’t know. They stay frozen there, staring, then Jon grabs him around the arm and yanks him into his hiding spot, forcing Martin to a crouch. 

“ _Martin?_ What the hell are you doing here?” Jon hisses, his hands jump all over Martin's body, checking for injuries-- _he’s so grateful they don’t pass straight through him but it hurts_ \--before they settle and stay, holding his face as Jon glares, partly angry, mostly afraid. “It’s not safe--”

“Yeah, no really?” Martin whispers, he bats Jon’s hands away. “Tim has the boat outside, we need to go--where’s Daisy?”

“I can’t leave, they have our skins, Martin, just leave without us.” Jon shakes his head. “Daisy’s-Daisy’s hunting the creature and it’s hunting _me_ \--”

“ _Jo-o-oon?_ ” something croons from the darkness, and Jon freezes up in terror. “ _It’s me, your dear friend, it’s Sasha. come out now, I have so much I want to talk about_.”

Its steps are heavy and deliberate as it stalks into the room, murmuring and muttering foully under its breath. Martin shrinks closer into Jon's side and he feels him grab blindly for his wrist, gripping their hands together tightly. They’re obscured from sight, but only just. 

Jon draws a shuddery breath. 

The creature perks up and takes one more excruciating step, so close Martin just has to tilt his head to see the glint of its teeth, the drool and blood dripping from its misshapen, almost melted jaw, opening wide in a foul smelling maw of malice. 

“ **I told you to leave the marked one and the Archivist alone, go find the hunter.** ” Jon demands, not even a quiver in his voice as he imitates Lukas with pinpoint accuracy, his eyes alight and shining in the damp darkness. 

The creature, however, swivels to stare directly at them and its voice is a triumphant shriek, “ _There you are._ ”

“ _Fuck_.” Jon says sincerely. 

The not-Sasha and Jon surge at once, two twin movements so fast Martin has no time to react--Jon drags Martin out of their corner, where the creature’s body crashes not moments later, growling with frustration.

It takes a wild swing toward them, forcing Jon to duck as its claws slice through the wall where he had been, gouging through it as if it were paper thin. With a violent shove it dislodges itself from the wall, its head coming up to snap, biting down on empty air. 

Martin hauls himself away, not letting his death grip on Jon's hand slacken for a moment. He can feel the pull of the fog, begging him to fall back into its sanctuary. But he can’t. He won’t leave Jon to die here alone. He swallows his fear and tries desperately to back up farther from the creature, but their backs are to the wall now, and there is nowhere to go; just the creature taking up more space then it should, grinning in its victory, savouring their helplessness.

So he’s in the perfect position to see it eat a fire extinguisher. 

“Oh, you are _definitely_ not my wife.” 

The monster smacks into the opposite wall, crashing into it with a sickening crunch of broken bone.

A man-- _Tim_ gives them a wave, there’s a tight smile fighting to stay cheery on his face, even as the creature struggles back up, spitting teeth and blood and snarling. It rounds on them; half its face concave from the blow and the flesh sloughing away to reveal gums and muscles while its eye rolls back into its head. The scream it emits is deafening, like Jon's but worse in every way imaginable. There is no shred of humanity in it, just the base primal call of something long gone feral.

“Shit, time to go!” Tim yells. 

They all bolt from the room, the monster hot on their heels, screaming a garbled mess of fury. Jon steers Martin one way and Tim goes another--he can’t tell who the monster picks to give chase after, so they run until Martin can’t breathe without gasping and he can no longer make any sense of where they are anymore. 

It takes a long time for them to notice that there is no rush of heavy footfall behind them. Just the gentle scream and hiss of machinery out of sight, a growl of metalwork and steam that still has him flinching. They slow, and Jon staggers to a stop. His fingers scramble uselessly with the unforgiving metal around his wrists as they both catch their breath.

“What is _wrong_ with this place?” Martin groans, panting, “What happened to Lukas? I didn't see a body back there.”

“I don’t know, I’m not omniscient, unfortunately.” Jon glances around suspiciously, “You should leave now, while he’s out of the picture.”

 _See? He doesn’t need you_. 

Martin whirls around, heart jumping straight up into his throat. There’s nothing there, and he tries to tell that to his adrenaline addled brain, though he can still hear the whispers of a voice. 

“--Martin? Martin!” Jon's voice jolts him back to the present, and he stares up into his eyes, disoriented, not for the first time that night. 

“I’m alright, I’m here.” Martin coughs, he looks away, blinking rapidly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He sees Jon grimace out of the corner of his eye, and he knows if he were to look, he’d find pity. 

“Something’s wrong.” Jon states, unnecessarily. 

“Yeah, I got that from the monster and being kidnapped earlier.”

“No, well, yes but something else.” Jon insists, “You weren’t in that room with me before, I didn't see you come in.”

Martin clenches his jaw, he doesn’t want to hear this. “Don’t. It’s fine.”

“You were cold, and you looked--” Jon stops, his hands flexing anxiously. “and you looked scared, back on the boat.” 

“I saidit’s _fine._ ” he snaps, despite himself. 

Jon goes unnaturally still, but doesn’t say anything more on the matter. Somehow, the silence is worse then the questions. 

“We should-we should look for Tim.” Martin mutters, just as another unholy scream rings out distantly, yet close enough to send all of the hairs on his arms on end. 

They creep down the halls with caution, peering through doorways like they’re expecting to be shot dead. Each step leaves Martin colder then the last.

“What’s happened to Daisy?” he asks, “She didn’t-she didn’t look--”

“She’s lost control.” Jon says quietly. 

“What does that mean?” Jon doesn’t respond. “Jon, Jon--what does that mean?”

“It means she’s dangerous,” Jon says, “and we should avoid running into her--and that _thing_ \--at all costs.”

Jon crumples into himself then, giving up entirely on freeing his hands in favor of burying them in his face, pulling at his hair with a kind of muted desperation. “This is all my fault.”

“Jon-”

“If I hadn't been so keen on running away-if I had listened to you and Daisy-” Jon cuts himself off, and his eyes peer out from between his fingers, droning forward into the middle distance. “I thought it would be safer.”

“Well, you were wrong.” Martin says, and he doesn’t know if he means it to be unkind or not. 

Jon nods in agreement, “That I was.”

“D’you think he’s dead?” Martin asks quietly. 

Jon's face twists unpleasantly with grief and fear and pain. 

“I don’t know,” he says, his voice no more then a hoarse confession. 

It’s impossible to hear another heart beat this close to Jon, no matter how hard he strains, letting the cold retake him quietly. Or maybe Tim was dead, and there was simply no heart beat to hear. 

As they pass yet another unremarkable room, he pauses.

Jon keeps moving ahead of him, unaware.

The room is the same as any of the others. Bits of machinery and heavy looking boxes surround the walls, a table crammed in the corner overflows with various tools and paper manuals. There’s sand on the floor, it fans out from the walls, piling into tiny dunes, bone white. Every tilt and rock of the ship disturbs it, gently shifting it closer to the door in ghostly waves. 

A rush of cold air bursts forth to caress his skin. 

He is overcome, suddenly, with the need to go in. He even gets his foot through the doorway before he notices the fog hiding along the ceiling, waiting. He has been keeping it waiting for so long, and it is _tired_ , just like him. The first wisp of white brushes against him, if it hadn’t chilled him to the bone, he might have called it gentle, beckoning him closer.

He can feel it curl around his back and begin to push, and without the presence of another close to him, it would be so simple to let it tip him forward and consume him. 

But he hears something else from behind him, not a far off heartbeat, but close; only then does he snap to his senses, pushing through the fog and away, though it feels like ripping shards of glass from his skin. 

Jon is staring down the hallway, transfixed with a half closed door, and he hurries to catch up. The sound grows louder, more threatening. 

Something is dripping. _Plip, plop, plip_.

Jon edges the next door open, and gags. 

Whatever viscera smears the ground is all that’s left of the not-Sasha creature, the smattering of flesh in the ceiling vent might have been its face, Martin is almost sure he sees an eye. The teeth buried into the metal water pipes and the strings of blood and muscle that paint the walls leave nothing for identification. 

Tim is nowhere to be seen.

In the center of the gore stands a figure, circled by the shock of red like the center of a flower. 

The woman before him is _not_ the Daisy he recognizes. She is monstrous; she stands tall, she exudes power, and anger, and the _hunt_ for blood. Her pelt hangs from her shoulder, her fingers find the ripped and torn edges that score straight through it and shake and _shake and shake_. Her eyes gleam _red_ , the soft brown hue is lost _._

Jon swallows, he raises his hands in a pacifying gesture and with the gentlest of steps, puts himself in between Daisy and Martin. “Martin--” 

Daisy pivots, her mouth bared in a snarl and when she spots Jon, it’s all over. 

“-- _run._ ” Jon demands, and he shoves Martin away from him as Daisy descends, teeth and claw and feral, ragged breathing. 

Martin is thrown off his feet from the sheer strength of the push, and in his mad scramble to get to his feet he sees Jon grapple with Daisy momentarily, then roll away from under her and shoot down the hull’s corridors at a sprint, with Daisy hot on his heels. 

He tears off after them, the world whipping by blindly around him like smoke. 

Ahead he sees a path of destruction, metal ripped clean through with claw marks shredding the soft floor. Blood spatters everything in sporadic patterns, growing more and more frequent the further he goes. Martin's skin crawls and he slips on the sticky floor. He can hear growls and huffs as the hall opens up into another large room--the engine room, maybe.

Daisy lunges through the darkness and Martin chokes on his shriek. But she isn’t going for him. 

Jon struggles to keep her away, his arms braced above himself to keep her jaws from closing around his throat. He's talking, his lips moving quickly and without sense as he stares with imploring, terrified eyes at his friend-become-attacker. 

His arm slips backwards and Daisy’s teeth snap around his shoulder. He screams.

Martin grabs blindly for something-- _anything_ \--and his hands close around something heavy and cylindrical. He heaves it up above his head and his arms shake with the effort--and brings it down as hard as he can on Daisy's back. 

Daisy _howls_ , and she instantly releases Jon--he crumples in a heap, unmoving, and he’s _not dead, he can’t be dead_ \--and to Martin's horror, turns on him. The impromptu weapon falls from his numb fingers, the weight too much as her scream sends every scrap of sense from his mind, replacing it all with primal fear. 

His instincts take over when his brain fails, and he runs. 

He doesn’t get far.

A weight hits his back, and he goes down with a crack, as something in his foot goes and snaps and he _screams_. 

She's right there on top of him, her nails digging into his shoulder blades. She weighs far more then she should and he can’t even drag in a breath to scream again. 

Daisy's breath snarls out of her in ragged gasps, hot on the back of his neck. Martin whimpers, his fists close around nothing and he feels his legs shake with agony. He thinks about the knuckles sitting at the bottom of the ocean-- _you should have a way to protect yourself_ \--and _aches_.

He feels something wet and cold hit his exposed skin and for a sickening moment he thinks it's drool--but there's a low, painful whine and Martin realizes they're _tears_.

A voice starts to growl out, hoarse and choked and in so much pain. “ _‘M so--_ ”

A shock of freezing cold envelops him, and just as suddenly as he had been there, he is not. The fog rushes in to hold him, a well familiar embrace. Daisy is nowhere in sight, but there isn’t anywhere _to_ see in the first place; it’s all whiteness, with the faintest suggestion of distant waves and the soft turn of sand under his hands.

Martin sucks in several deep breaths and lays there trembling, gripping at the sand uselessly for support. 

“This is why we don’t have friends.”

He doesn’t flinch, as though every muscle in his body locks up even with his brain screaming, _danger, danger, danger_. He lets his next exhale out in a shuddery mess, and lifts himself up onto his knees, and then finally he stands on unsteady legs. His ankle--which was definitely broken--doesn’t hurt terribly, it feels muted, as if the fog was holding the pain at bay.

He raises his eyes and meets the gaze of Peter Lukas. He doesn’t even look ruffled, not a blemish on his dark blue overcoat. He has a harsh edge to his eyes as he says, “They _always_ backfire.” 

There's no escape this time, any tremulous control Martin had over the fog fades, evaporating from his mind. He is on his own now. 

“Where’s Daisy.” Martin asks, he looks around at the empty beach, as if she might spring out from the fog clouds. 

“Back on my ship, unfortunately.” Lukas curls his lip distastefully. “I thought I might lend a hand and stop her from killing you, you’re welcome, by the way.”

“Oh yeah, _thanks_.” Martin all but spits.

Lukas just tilts his head to the side, a mockery of curiosity. 

"Why am I here?" Martin asks, when it becomes apparent Lukas isn’t going to offer up information willingly. "Why did you pick me? Was it just-just random chance, or--" 

"At this point I think even you know the answer to that, Martin." he says. “You’re _meant_ to be here, you don’t have to fight it anymore.” 

And he can feel it, the loneliness, a sort of all encompassing dread that surrounds him, as thick as the fog. Or is the fog part of it? It sits in the seat of his stomach, weighing him down slowly until even his eyelids droop against his will. He blinks hard several times, trying to clear his head.

“Then why did you do that? You _clearly_ could have just taken me at any moment, you didn’t need to make a shitshow of it.” Martin snaps, “You didn’t have to--to _torture_ them.”

Lukas shrugs, then crosses his arms behind his back, head tilted up as if enjoying the cold breeze. 

“In my experience,” he says slowly, “losing those you love is unimaginably painful, though fairly common. Grief takes hold, and tears are shed, but people move on eventually, alone.” he pauses, smiles, “And quite frankly, those two are quite the troublemakers, it was more then a little satisfying to see the woman break like that, if a little risky. I imagine the Archivist will be all the sweeter when his time comes.” 

Martin's throat closes up, which is possibly a good thing, as it stops him from having to bite his tongue to keep back the pathetic pleas that spring to mind. He thinks of Tim, he thinks of the blood and the gore and the death and he _hopes_ , against everything. He thinks of Daisy's tears, her claws and her screams. He thinks of Jon, his lifeless form left aboard the ship, unprotected. 

“Don’t.” Martin says instead, “You won’t have to do anything else to them.”

That sharp quality returns to Lukas then, gone is the good natured facade. “Oh?” he says, charmingly, hungrily. 

“I'll stay here, and they get to leave.” Martin says, “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? I wasn't supposed to leave. I’ll stay-I’ll stay right here, and I won’t try to leave.” 

Lukas says nothing in return, pacing in slow, methodical circles, waiting for Martin to continue.

“But you have to leave them alone, if I do this.” Martin takes a stab at a demanding tone, and his voice betrays him one last time, cracking. “I mean it. You don’t touch Jon or Daisy or-or Tim, any of them--and they get their skins back. They get to be safe.” 

“You strike a hard bargain,” Lukas says, though Martin isn’t so sure, with the way his eyes gleam with victory. “it’s a deal.” 

Lukas holds out his hand.

Martin looks at it for a long moment, and does not go to shake it. “I want to see Jon first.”

Something flickers over Lukas’ face; a barely there twitch at the corner of his mouth, the beginnings of lips being drawn back in anger-- _annoyance?_ \--before it is masked over entirely. 

“Of course,” Lukas smiles, unperturbed. “that’s fine, I still have to return this.” 

He pulls out a thick blanket of brown and grey from inside his coat, and with a painful jolt, Martin recognizes Jon’s skin. He leaps forward and yanks it out of Lukas’ hands before he can even think, blinded by the disgust of letting that man hold something so precious. To his surprise, Lukas doesn’t resist, and Martin cradles the pelt close to his chest protectively, comforting it against his fast beating heart. 

Ever so faintly, he feels the trembling _fear-pain-loss-fear-fear-fear--_ Jon was alive.

He tries not to think about Daisy _happening_ upon her skin in the bowels of the ship, deranged and driven out of her mind with the hunt. Had she hesitated, had she anything left inside her to question why it would be set so carefully in her path of destruction? 

He tries not to think about how soft the skin feels under his fingers--even as his brain frantically commits the sensation to memory--how it feels _alive_ and how it’s likely one of the last times he’ll get to feel such a thing. 

“Or you could keep it, if you like.” Lukas suggests, and Martin _recoils_.

“Don’t you _dare-_ -” Martin starts, practically shaking with...something. Even as the feeling comes, it washes out of him, leaving him drained and weary.

Lukas cuts him off with a laugh, a hearty, happy noise that grates at his mind and makes it harder and harder to focus. The world swims and his vision whites out. 

He cries out as reality rushes up to meet him, bringing with it sharp agony lancing through his leg. It crumples immediately under his own weight, pulling another whimper from him. The weight of his choice crashes down on him and he stops, one hand splayed out to steady himself. 

A cursory glance around confirms his dread filled suspicions; he’s back aboard the Tundra, being bombarded by screeching alarms, pipes that groan and creak above his head. 

Martin bites his lip, and grabs at the walls to hoist himself up, scrambling until he’s able to lean against it and limp down the corridor. He’s dully aware of the fog that dogs his steps, trailing behind him, watching. He wonders if Lukas himself was watching, well aware of the sort of coward Martin is. 

He isn’t _brave_ and he’s going to die for this, or worse. He wants nothing more then to curl into a ball and cry as the pain oozes over him in waves. _Would it really be so awful?_ He won’t hurt again, he can be alone and everyone else will be okay--battered, but alive. 

Soon. He has to find the others--find Jon. Then he can rest, _then he can rest._

\--

His mind is so painfully void of thought he almost limps right over someone. It could have been Daisy, but he can’t even summon a shred of fear. 

Instead he hears his own name, the speaker turns it reverent and soft and just a little bit frantic. 

He all but falls into Jon's arms, letting the scorching heat encircle him and trusting it to keep him from falling. Jon smells like fear; sweat and blood and still just a little bit like the ocean. He's trembling even as he tightens his grip on Martin, and his nails bite into Martin’s skin but he finds he doesn’t mind at all, he can barely feel it. 

Martin pulls back regretfully, a lump building up in his throat. He presses the skin into Jon's chest with shaking hands, flinching as Jon's hands come up to cover his. _Relief-fear-confusion-fear-lo--_

“I got it back for you, he had it, I’m sorry-he touched it but I got it, it’s safe.” Martin babbles, barely above a breathless whisper.

“What happened to you, Martin? I lost you and then--did Daisy do that?” Jon shakes, alternating between looking around with paranoia written clearly across his face, and staring at Martin with a heart shattering expression.

Martin pins a ghostly smile to his face, “It’s okay, she-she didn’t mean to. She’s still alive, you have to go find her, please.”

Jon's grip tightens even moreso. “We'll find her together, and Tim. We can get out of here, Martin.” 

“I'm sorry,” Martin says. 

He slips from his arms easily enough, he wants the loss of warmth to hurt, but honestly it’s a _relief_. He doesn’t even hurt looking up at the heartbreak on Jon's face. 

“It’s okay, Jon.” he says calmly, “This is _okay_ , I chose this. Take care of Daisy, tell Tim what happened and tell him I said I’m sorry but it’s okay. Just--don’t try to follow me.”

He indulges one last true feeling, and plants a soft kiss on the center of Jon's forehead. Then he smiles through tears that he cannot feel against his cheeks, and steps back into the fog one last time just as Jon lunges to catch him.

He opens his eyes, he doesn’t remember closing them. But there is a disconnect; he doesn’t remember because he doesn’t feel anything, he is two steps to the left of his body and mind. There is nothing and everything ahead of him, a tundra of white. 

It’s just like his dreams, the fog is present and everywhere, it pushes through the barrier of his skin and flesh and pierces his heart and he feels nothing. All his thoughts and hopes and wants fade, and he is numb once again. He keeps walking forward, because there is no reason not to, and sand softly parts under his feet, cold and lifeless.

There is no sound of waves, no comforting melody of crash and retreat as he nears the shoreline. Peter Lukas is there. The silent tide rushes to meet him but does not dare touch his shoes. 

He looks at Martin, pleased.

"I thought I could get away." Martin says, his voice sounds hollow, far away, and Lukas smiles.

"Oh, Martin." he says, fondly. "You never left."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woof, just one more chapter to go...guess i should get to editing that, huh?


	10. THE VOICE OF THE SEA SPEAKS TO THE SOUL

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just want it to be known i wrote about 50% this chapter BEFORE recollection came out and then had to go back and rewrite all of it. thank you jonny.

He’s never liked beaches. Or at least, he thinks he’s never liked beaches. 

If he tried, the few memories he could drudge up were sharp and pointy things; filled with tumultuous skies threatening rain, the sand was riddled with gravel and large stones. The sound of the waves hitting land cruel and angry, like all those stories about water spirits sinking greedy fishing boats, sirens taking men drunk on port. The very land and sky and ocean turned _united_ and _hostile_.

This place he finds himself in is not unlike those hazy memories.

It’s grey scale, entirely monotone in a way that might be unassuming, artfully barren to the naked eye in all directions. Even the sand under his feet is plain and undisturbed, nearly white in color and cold to the touch. 

It is quiet in a way Martin never appreciated in the world he left behind, there is no distraction of people, no pressing needs to be useful or wanted; no one needed that of him here. The silence invites his mind to wander, to fill the void with his thoughts while simultaneously knowing he has none such to expound upon. 

He used to have so much filling him up and spilling over. It had been overwhelming, he tried to commit them to paper, to turn them into something _meaningful_. But what were his trembling scribbles, his fumbling inaccuracies, compared to those around him? His hopeless romanticisms, falling in love at the drop of a hat and for what, did he think he could make his infatuations seem pretty under the right light? Something to be gawked at in the name of _art?_

It all meant nothing, but that didn’t matter. Because nothing meant anything here. So he keeps walking, searching and searching-- _why?_ He’s tired, he should rest. 

But there’s no such resting place for him to sit, the fog drones on as far as the eye can see, blurring any sense of direction. The sand is musty and cold and it leeches away at the little heat he still carries with him, but he is so tired, he just needs to rest for a moment. 

He could go back to the boat. He knows there was a boat, and it was warm there. There was a bed, filled with soft bodies pressed against his. If it had been such a comfort to him, why had he left? He must have failed somehow, he must have ruined something, touched something and it broke, shattered into pieces-- _like always_ , she used to say, _you break everything you touch, clumsy and useless, just like him_. 

And there had been blood. There had been pain, so much of it he could nearly burst. Was that his fault? How could he have done that to them? But who are _they?_ There are no other people here with him. This place is empty, barren and he is it’s sole occupant. But it’s alright, it’s fine. He was supposed to be here, he had overstayed his welcome in that world of warmth, familiarity was a stranger to him now. 

His head hurts, a low pulsing thrum that drips down his throat into his chest, clenching tight around his heart, its pathetic beat no more then a faint thump- _thump_. 

He was here for a reason, and he was safe here, despite the cold and its emptiness; it wasn’t too bad, there were surely worse places to be. He just wishes he could see the horizon, the waves; crystal blue and loud, to feel the sun on his skin, the sound of wild geese overhead. Just once more. 

The cold doubles down on him then, holding him in place as the fog turns and rises, and he forgets all over again. 

\--

There is a noise, a splash of water so deafening he flinches, ears ringing like it had been a gunshot. 

He stands up, and though he had only been sitting for a brief moment, his body wails in protest, sore muscles aching and bones creaking like the ancient dead. 

The fog lessens ever so slightly, though the now expanded horizon offers nothing to see besides odd little puddles forming among the tiny dunes of sand. The water ripples minutely, dancing along to the soft lull of voices that sound like nails against chalkboard, getting worse and worse as he draws ever closer to their drifting tones. 

He thinks about adding his own voice to the far off conversation, a soft hello, maybe. _Do you need anything? Please, could you leave?_ But the inclination passes through his mind and vanishes just as quickly as it comes.

“ _...you’re so set on chasing after him, but have you even considered whether he wants you to find him?_ ” comes the bemused tones of a man, one he recognizes, like he used to hear him in his dreams. “ _How much do you claim to know him? He hurt you, he doesn’t deserve your help anymore._ ” 

He hasn’t thought of Peter Lukas in a long time, his memories of the man are likewise the area around him, foggy. He can’t even see him now, his voice simply floats through the silence, there but not really. His words are odd, the barbed wires snared through them don’t sound like they’re aimed for him. 

“Where have you taken him?” another voice demands, unknown, yet so familiar it has something soaring in his chest, and just as quickly plummets. 

“ _He came here willingly, I hardly did anything in the end_.” comes the reply, “ _Go home, Archivist_.”

“Fine. If that’s how you’re going to be.” the stranger snarls, “So be it.” 

He sees then, a strange figure several yards off, pushing through the mist as if it were a physical barrier.

They are tall and shivering, cloaked in a dark pelt as they step through the fog with a caution reserved for bombs and landmines. Their face is obscured, but he knows they’re afraid, he can practically smell it coming off them in waves of enticing fear. They are so _alone_ now, and they know it. As their resolve wavers, he strengthens.

He jerks away, his skin crawling at the sight. It feels wrong, there shouldn’t be two where there should only be one. 

“Martin!” the stranger calls, harsh and breaking the precious silence he coveted so. They sound so tired, they worried too much--cared too much, and now it has put them in danger once again. 

The name rings in his head, bells chiming a tune of remembrance; _Martin_. Hm.

“Hello.” he says softly, barely above a whisper but it has the stranger swiveling on their heels, searching the fog with startling desperation.

"Martin! We need to go-something's happened, I think Tim may have rigged it before he--" they stutter, and how easy it is to fill in the gaps; _before he died. Before he died trying to help you, torn apart and ripped to pieces by a monster. This is your fault--why can’t he remember it_? "--the ship is _sinking_ , Martin, and Daisy's--Daisy's gone." the stranger chokes, so perfectly afraid, their loneliness is practically dripping off them. 

He starts, his mind snagging on their words. _Daisy's gone?_

He doesn’t remember anyone called Daisy, he’s always so forgetful, so clumsy. Probably for the best he doesn’t remember. There was no need for her to be near, and no need to care for her.

“You don’t have to stay here, we can leave--I’ll-” the stranger starts, stops, starts again, “I’ll find the way out for us.”

He really doubts it. 

“It’s fine here, really.” he murmurs, unfocused. “Go find Daisy, she’s more important.”

“You’re important too, Martin- _god damnit_ , where are you?”

He watches them, turning around and around but not truly seeing. He is right there, right in front of them. He's so close he could even reach out and touch the stranger, if he wanted. And in the past, maybe he would, maybe he would have relished at the chance and seen it as an honor. 

He can feel the heat coming off the stranger in waves, too warm. It feels like staring into the sun, and he is not made for such tasks. He has no wings of feather and wax, there is no fear of flying too close to the sun; he is full of a cold that will not melt, but it will still _hurt_. 

Now he watches, and skirts away when they get a little too close.

With a sigh, the stranger continues into the silent beyond.

He’s not quick enough to follow after them, and they vanish from sight, hidden in the depths of roiling fog. The only thing left is a nagging sensation of wrongness, like he had missed something important, and now it was lost. 

He is afraid, he is more afraid then he’s ever been in his life and he doesn’t know _why._ He can’t even bring himself to cry out, to expel the sobs from his lungs. His heartbeat hammers out an unsteady melody, tears stream down his cheeks, scalding his skin yet he daren’t utter a sound. 

He can’t help but fall to his knees with the weight of the world against his shoulders, hand clamped over his mouth to subdue his gasp. Behind his eyes his memories flit like brightly colored stars, fleeting things of comfort that no longer make sense; the touch of an arm around his back, the rough bark of a laugh and a slap on the shoulder, a hard wrought smile earned through kindness and a warm mug pressed into scarred hands. It all spills through his fingertips, each star fades in its own dying light.

He breathes deeply, even though it brings more indifferent cold, sinking into the bones of him and tightening, making a home out of him. It steadies him, he reasons, as he shakes and shakes. 

He doesn’t even think to resist, there is nothing there to mourn. And he forgets. 

“Martin?” 

He looks up, his face is wet and he can’t imagine why.

Oh--there’s someone here. 

How strange, he’s never seen another person in the fog before.

The stranger is tall and shivering, cloaked in a dark pelt as they step through the fog with a caution reserved for bombs and landmines. Their face is obscured, but he knows they’re afraid, he can practically smell it coming off them in waves of enticing fear. They are so _alone_ now, and they know it. As their resolve wanes, he strengthens.

The figure isn’t looking at him, and he’s grateful, for some reason. 

He knows them, he thinks. But he can’t remember their name, maybe an old friend? No, that doesn’t feel quite right. Perhaps they had passed each other once, shapes in the dark, caught only in the periphery; almost touching but not quite, _what once could have been_. 

“Martin, please, just--” the stranger sounds pained, frustrated. “please.” 

Is he the person this stranger is looking for? That can’t be right, no one needs him anymore, he made sure of that. 

“Turn around, Jon.” his mouth takes over where his brain had been lagging behind. _Jon, Jon, Jon, the name feels like molten gold in his mouth, his lips sing with it_ \-- _who is Jon?_

The figure sags with palpable relief, “ _Martin_ \--where are you?”

It would take nothing more then the slightest inch of his hand forward to touch the stranger, he’s right there, right in front of them--this is not the first time. His memory fractures like glass, the sharp edges of it turn inward to stab and rend, and it has him flinching back involuntarily, as if to put physical distance between the turmoil of his mind. 

“I told you not to come.” he says it helplessly, a touch frantic.

“I know.”

“So _leave_.” the words rush out, heavy with a despair that feels misplaced, someone else’s fear that has been shrugged onto his shoulders.

“No.” the stranger says again, “I am going to find you.” 

They continue, with determination he knows they cannot feel. Further and further into the fog, further into becoming lost and forsaken.

In a place made to harbor silence, the stranger speaks, filling the void with their soft voice.

“Did you know I didn’t even think you were a part of the Tundra when I first saw you?” they say conversationally, as the fog trails close behind, a rapt audience. “I took one look at you and decided there wasn’t a chance it could be _you_ \--you were too soft, you didn’t know what you were doing, you were a _moron_ , a total dolt. You tried to make friends.”

They pause-- _he_ pauses, as the fog snakes around his legs, grasps at his fingertips. They shake with minute tremors, but he turns his head up, challenging. 

“So I tried to get rid of you, of course. I thought I was sparing you whatever prolonged torture Lukas had concocted. It was a surprise when you fought back.” the stranger continues, “Though it was an even bigger surprise when you helped me--saved my life, really. After everything I did to you, I wouldn't have blamed you for finishing the job back on the Tundra, but no, you tried to rescue me of all things.” 

He speaks with a fondness that softens the sorrow enveloping them, weaving a tapestry that he can almost see in his mind’s eye; a seal that is not a seal, trapped in the harsh constraints of fishing nets and bloodied by harpoon spears. He hears his own voice, small yet decided, lying to Lukas. He feels the wind around his ears, the rush around him picking up until it vanishes and his body slams into unforgiving water and ice--

"I think I despised you for it; your kindness. You just never stopped, even after I was downright cruel to you, and you should have stopped. I was terrible, I hurt you to make you understand, to push you away, but you just--wouldn't."

The stranger’s shoulders hunch upwards, his arms winding around himself as he shivers. Martin knows what he’s feeling intimately. It's a kind of cold that leaves you numb rather then shocked. Just a tick over onto the side of tolerable, enough to keep you quiet, as surely it must warm up soon, things can't stay like this forever. 

It will though, he knows. 

He doesn't want to touch the stranger, he is afraid, but he doesn’t know why. He is tired of not knowing, his mind feels like shattered glass, his memories pouring through the cracks and merging with the sand at his feet. 

"I didn't want you to see me for what I was, a _monster_. So I pushed," he laughs, weakly. "and still you stayed. I don’t know if you wanted to, maybe this place...maybe this place is better to you. But I wanted--I _hoped_ that you stayed because you wanted to be there, with me." 

Determination--a weak and flickering little thing--has him brushing the glass shard memories aside, his fingertips ghosting over Jon’s wrist, desperately ignoring the scalding heat of his skin and how it _burns_. He just needs to redirect him, he tells himself; steer him toward the kinder parts of this cold place, he won’t be much better off there, but he will be alive, he will be whole. 

The fabric is scratchy, and it feels like it might tear his skin to pieces, as if it was made of razor wire instead of cotton. His fingers don’t go through it, and Jon turns with his tug, letting himself be moved back the way he came easily, moving like a sleepwalker, completely unaware of Martin's existence. 

Which is good. 

He can only hear Jon's footsteps as they walk, and he doesn’t know why it upsets him so much.

“Martin?” Jon calls again, like a broken record, skipping and skipping over the same line. “I’m sorry.” 

And Martin cannot help himself. “Why?”

He doesn’t have time to berate himself for speaking, not when Jon is looking _at_ him, not through him. It is everything he feared it would be, the heat of the gaze pins him in place and his very soul recoils with terror filled elation, a primal instinct tells him to hide, he wants to shrink in on himself-- _you’re too big for that Martin, always getting in the way_ \--

But he can’t move, he can only drop Jon’s sleeve in shock, forcing a distance back between them. Jon stares with wild eyes, hand snapping down to capture his own in a vice of burning heat, drawing a pained gasp from Martin’s lips. 

They used to trade touch like secrets, quietly given, hesitantly accepted; expecting betrayal, a violent turn, always some fear hiding away in Jon's eyes. The gaze he’s pinned under like a butterfly to needles holds none of that apprehension. When had that happened? When had it faded? When had his gaze softened, when had it become something so private and all encompassing, when had the briar thorns dulled to allow him safe passage?

Jon's grip slackens slightly, and he turns Martin's wrist over in his hand like he’s made of something fragile. The rough drag of his scars is near agonizing but Martin is frozen in place, as his thumb strokes a brand into the curves of his knuckles.

“I’m sorry I left you alone.” Jon says and his whisper is the last piece, the final shattering of Martin's resolve.

“ _Jon_ ,” Martin gasps, echoing faintly. He means it to come out as a question, but the words leave him in a rush so fast his world spins. He holds tighter to Jon, anchoring himself in the turmoil. “you can see me.”

Jon nods, a desperate bob of his head, “Yes.”

“Why are you here?”

“For you.” Jon says. _For you, of course, for you,_ he doesn’t say, as if it’s obvious; as inevitable as the sun rising in the east, setting in the west. 

That soaring feeling rushes back in with a vengeance; here he stands, in this quiet void, just for him. But he _can’t_ be here, there weren’t supposed to be other people in the fog, he was supposed to be alone here--safe, keeping them safe. Now Jon was back in harm's way, just another one of Martin's many failures. 

“Go home, Jon.” he says, heavy with sorrow. He tries to gently retract from Jon’s hold, but it tightens in response.

“Not without you.” Jon retorts, “Do you remember? I asked you to stay with us, with me. So come home with me now.” 

“I don’t think I want to leave.” 

Jon stares at him beseechingly, “I’m not leaving you here.” 

Martin twitches, his hand passes through Jon's with ease, unpleasantly, _ghostly_. He doesn’t look away from him as he does, he commits every small change to his face, from the pained tilt of his eyebrows, to the redness shadowing his eyes. He will remember this, he thinks, even as it fades. 

A breathless, hurt noise escapes Jon. 

“What did Lukas do to you?”

Martin shakes his head softly, mournfully. “I think I've always been like this.”

A tentative step bridges the distance building between them, “Will you hold this for me?” Jon says, and something heavy falls across his shoulders. It’s warm. “I'm going to find Lukas, and then everything will be alright. I _will_ come back for you, just--”

A flurry of emotion crosses his face in a blink. And then he backs away, disappearing into the fog. The last thing Martin sees is the undaunting resolution burning in his eyes. 

He waits for the fog to reclaim him, patiently and without fight. And come it does, slinking back around him, a cloak of despair so sweet it could be kindness. But it doesn’t get far, something halts its approach.

Martin looks down at his shoulders, which moments ago had been nearly transparent, but now are solid and whole. His eyes catch on dark skin and slick fur, on strange myriad patterns that blink up at him softly, like they’re alive and watching. The pelt feels heavier then Martin's fractured memories recall. It smells like Jon, it feels like Jon, because it _is_ Jon. 

And he can feel him, in a rush of agonized emotion. Grief and sorrow and love and pain, how can one person feel this all at once? It’s too much. It lights a small flame in the hollow of his chest, not at all like the scalding heat he’s used to, but soft, a hopeful thing. 

Alone again, but not quite. He struggles to keep his mind together.

Someone had told him to stay put, but the command is a simple thing to disobey with the light within him glowing, intense and bright and wrongly defiant. His feet feel wrong and clumsy, like he’s a tripping newborn foal, stumbling with every other step toward... _something_. It doesn't help that the sand has turned heavy and every stride is dragged down by ankle deep water that just seems to get deeper and deeper, slowly, surely. 

Somewhere, far off and out of mind, alarm bells ring.

All too soon, the air shifts around him. The spirals and swirls of the fog paint tantalizing images, lulling him into a sweet surrender. 

_What are you doing, Martin? Running again?_

He wavers, hesitating. The pelt slips on his shoulders, threatening to fall off completely and it jolts him back to reality. He catches himself before his knees give out. 

An exhale. He is here--he is _Martin Blackwood_ and he is alone but not forgotten, not yet. 

_You don’t even have a home to go back to, Martin, you belong here._

That’s...

That’s not true.

His home is out there, on a cramped boathouse unfit for the open ocean that creaks when it storms, and the kitchen is too small for the cooking Martin likes but it’s alright, they can make do with what they have because it’s home. Daisy is there, the one he remembers and loves; with her smiles that don’t suit her and Jon--

He has to remember. Jon is important; Jon means something, he means safety, a place to return to when the world goes cold around him. And if Martin can keep that meaning aloft in his mind, grasping at the lightness of it, he might be alright.

He gave himself to Martin, he lies across his shoulders, warming his lonely entrenched heart to the core, the fog recoiling away from him as the heat steadily returns feeling to his fingers. _Love-uncertainty-fear-anger_ \--they all course through him, a steady and unforgettable reminder of the soul encompassing him. 

And for a moment--just a moment, his fingertips feel like claws.

\--

The beach feels different, just as his steps feel more sure. The embrace of it is an entombment, it holds to bind him in suffocating terror. Every move he makes to push himself further from his shackles causes ripples of hostility in the very air around him, daring him to try again. 

Lukas _knows_. He is hiding, but Martin can feel his presence slinking amongst the mist, like the faint beat of his heart. Martin is still a part of the lonely world around him, even as he rejects it. 

He doesn’t know the exact moment he’s found, it happens in the span of a breath, one inhale he is alone--in the worst, most literal sense of the word, and the next, he is surrounded. The only giveaway is the slight flutter of Lukas’s coat against the nonexistent wind.

“We had a deal, Martin.” Lukas says sternly, but not unkindly; almost _disappointed_. His voice echos infinitely, holding depths of sorrow and aching abandonment. 

“Well, things have changed--I don’t _have_ to be alone anymore.” Martin says, curls his hands into fists to feel the bite of his nails, at least he isn’t shaking. “Where’s Jon?”

“That’s rather selfish of you,” Lukas doesn’t sound as well composed anymore, the calm shift of the fog tightens into a roiling, dark storm cloud. “maybe that doesn't matter to you anymore, now that you've led your dear Archivist here. You’d let him _suffer_ in your stead?” 

The words send a sharp bout of cold and fog his way, promising false comforts; all the ruin and sadness he could ever hope for, to wrap around his mind and soul like a blanket of misery, tailored just for him. 

But the lonely fog had already tried to swallow him and failed. Now he is in the belly of the beast and he wrested the control from its jaws. What had once consumed his thoughts and toyed with his mind had no choice but to submit to his whims.

Martin trembles now--but not with fear, “ _Shut up_.”

“Oh ho, still fighting it, are you?” Lukas laughs, a disbelieving thing. “Quite the show of resilience, very brave-- _stupid_ , but brave.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Martin says, defiance burns in his blood, his hands fist tighter in the skin draped around him. “Jon is here, and we’re going to leave--we're going home, and you aren’t going to do _anything_ about it.”

“I’m not, am I?” Lukas murmurs, and all the hairs stand up on Martin’s neck. It feels like he’s right there, looming over his shoulder. “Why don’t you sit down, and I’ll find that pesky little Archivist of yours?”

Martin spins around--there’s nothing there, of course. Lukas’ presence subsides, yet despite his words, in his wake there is a trail of palpable bitterness, twisting further into the fog.

 _Come look if you're so strong,_ it says wordlessly.

He wanted Martin to see.

Martin hesitates for a moment, but spurred on by the warmth around him, he advances after the captain. 

He knows he's on the right track when the murmuring in his ears gets more insistent, promising rest if he just lets his eyelids droop and his legs go unsteady and crumple. It does nothing but strengthen his resolve, sets his pace quicker.

The water sloshes around his ankles as he sprints, blindly searching for a heart beat known. 

_"You're quite eager to throw yourself into danger, Archivist. Especially for someone you don't truly know."_

He turns his head wildly, zeroing in on the voice. Frustration drives a noise from him, as the fog gives nothing away; the endless nothingness that had once been a twisted comfort, now conceals and deceives his senses. 

He almost cries out in relief when he hears a familiar voice cut through the silence.

“Where are you hiding?” Jon asks, echoing his sentiment. Martin can hear the tension in his voice, the growl to it giving away the fear. 

_“What even is your plan? Kill me and run away with a hollowed out stranger? Seems like a pathetic end to me.”_

“You could just let us go.” 

_“He doesn’t want to go with you, you heard him yourself.”_ a pause, calculating. _“Seems you’re missing pieces of yourself as well,”_ Lukas tuts softly, somewhere off to Martin’s right. _“skinned and left to die, again?”_

“He didn’t-” Jon starts, barely a mumble. “it was given.”

Martin stumbles, trips in his haste. The sand grits into his palms, much sharper then it should be as he hauls himself back up. He has to fight down a wave of dizziness but when he finally rights himself, he can see clearly. 

He can see the shoreline, endless stretches of sand, heralded by the gentle tide--growing fiercer with every crack of the waves, becoming something stormy and foreboding, matching the sky above.

Jon crouches where the tide meets land, half turned away from him, but looking all the more haggard and distraught, crumpled in defeat. His hands clamped over his mouth as he breathes hard through his nose. 

_“It’s alright, Archivist. You’ll be safe here, you can’t hurt anyone.”_

Martin tries to drag words out of his mouth, a scream, a desperation, anything. The fog steals them away, blanketing over everything in sight. Until he can only see Lukas, cast in the lonely, staring down with a look of disdain.

“Now was that so difficult?” Lukas hums, and his eyes flick up and find Martin-- 

“ **Peter, what _are_ you doing?**”

It’s a voice Martin has never heard before, slick and full of barely contained malice. It echoes in all directions, seemingly sourceless. 

This seems to startle Lukas, and he turns on the spot; any pretense of looking disinterested is thoroughly thrown to the winds as he spins with bewildered eyes, searching the fog for the source. “ _Elias?_ ”

“ **We’ve talked about this, Peter. the Archivist is _mine,_ and I don’t share**.” 

“He walked in here on his own-- _that’s_ not part of the _rules_ , I’m allowed to rally my defences.” Lukas argues, “Where are you? What are you doing here? I thought you had a meeting in London--” 

He doesn’t finish the rest of his sentence. Jon lunges from the fog, claws first.

Jon looks terrible, _terrifying,_ his gentle edges gone. He is in human form, and yet Martin has never seen him look more monstrous then now. There is blood coating his claws and running down his chin, staining his teeth pink. The whites of his eyes gleam and the gold is dull, swallowed almost entirely by black. A terrible fury has claimed him, bone deep, there is no room for anything else.

He slams into Lukas and the surprise from the blow staggers the both of them, sending up a great splash of salt water. 

But Jon is not Daisy; he doesn’t know how to fight, he’s never known how to fight. It’s obvious in the flinch of his muscles and the scars that litter his body. 

Lukas grabs Jon around the throat, lifting him up with ease as he kicks with a hoarse shout that dies on his lips as his lungs are starved of oxygen. 

“Elias is going to be so angry at me for this.” he muses through gritted teeth as Jon chokes. 

Something flips in Martin’s head, and he’s suddenly next to them--out of breath but calm, so close he can see the blood vessels burst in the whites of Jon’s eyes, the air as it puffs out from his straining lips as Lukas regards him with indifferent hate. 

Jon flails one last time with all the violence of someone knowing they’re about to die, struggling with all his might but it’s not enough, Lukas is too strong and _Jon is dying_.

His claws sink through thick fabric and into soft skin and even softer insides, and then there is no sound at all, besides the tiniest of gasps from Lukas; surprised maybe. Martin certainly is, as he retracts, and the blood spills forth to fill the gap and then some, painting the pearly sand red. 

The captain of the Tundra trembles once, pale. He makes a horrible choking noise, gurgling on blood and his fingers fumble, loosen just enough for Jon to scramble away as he falls.

“Martin?” Jon croaks, dragging ragged gasps through battered lungs. 

Martin looks at his hands, large and human and covered in sickly red. The corpse at his feet dissipates, as if it were an apparition, merging with the fog around them--the captain going down with the ship. 

Above, the clouded sky splits apart with rain clouds, the clap of thunder. 

All at once he feels sick, his knees practically give out from under him. The sand grits into his skin, and every muscle in his body screams in protest but he raises his arms, waterlogged, to grab for Jon’s hands, clumsily locking their fingers. Though it stings--Jon’s claws catch and dig, and its sticky--the blood makes his grip slippery and terrible. 

Jon jerks. “Martin, I can’t--” he tries, keeping his shaking hands tight around Martin’s.

“He’s--I think he’s dead.” Martin says, dazed. “Jon?”

Something stirs in the lonely fog, the fear comes fast, heavy and thick in the air, heralding a change, an _adaptation_. 

The domain now captainless, it sought the next to crown. What a _crown_ it would be--he gasps. He feels the power being offered, the tools to build, he could mold this terrible place into a _sanctuary_ \--to weave himself a prison of his own making, a lonely place to call home. 

The wisping tendrils grasp at his skin, as if pleading with him, beckoning him to accept it. 

It’s not a request, it is a _demand_. 

“Martin, can you hear me?” Jon calls, his voice cracking painfully. “ _Shit_.”

Jon struggles upright, pulling Martin along with him, though he hardly notices. He’s entranced by the beauty around him, how had he not seen the detail to the fog; the patterns in its swirls, it did not demand things as simple as selfhood, identity and soul. There was no need to be anything, nothing of importance. 

It’s horrifying--

“--it’s so _beautiful_.” Martin gasps.

Jon drags them further from the shore, the water pulls them in shocking waves, already singing its own song of temptation; rising from waist to chest to neck, licking the curls around his ears. 

“You can’t have him.” Jon says in defiance to a place that has already won--and he plunges them under the abyss. 

He used to write about drowning, he used to liken it to something _romantic;_ lacing his poems with the analogy, as if it were synonymous for the embrace of a lover, peaceful, maybe. _And then the water filling his lungs was just as beautiful as the love filling his heart._ Foolish, _naive_. 

He inhales, his body desperate for that drag of air but is met with unforgiving water to weigh him down. 

The water pushes past his lips, down his throat, into his lungs. It burns; his nerves are on fire, his ears pop, and his body--exhausted and waning--surges adrenaline fueled fear through him, tries to get his legs kicking to save himself. 

But he is sinking, a steady stone downwards, dragged by the weight of another. His hands come up feebly, and he notes, with relief even in his state of delirium, that they aren’t bloody anymore. He’s drawn to the sight of hands encircling his wrists, holding, rather then entrapping. Not that it would change anything, not now. 

Martin meets Jon’s eyes, wide and strangely beautiful; it's a soothing sight, if it's to be his last. It’s quieter then the first time, calm, almost. He is held softly, no bite of teeth, no hurtful fog. Even the panic is dulling out into a grim acceptance, leaving him heavy and cold.

He leans into that point of contact, his last beacon of life. The feel of Jon’s fingers on his skin, the way they still hold him so carefully. He never got to write everything he wanted about them, about Jon. He never learned how to make his tea just the way he likes, he never got to learn all his scars, he never got to know him how he wanted. 

It’s infuriating, it isn’t fair. 

He rallies with that thought, even as he chokes on death. He _can’t_ die, they still have to learn--the world, each other, to be at peace and to not recoil from the idea of it. 

He won’t let the sad smile on Jon’s face be the last he sees. 

All at once he is aware of the weight around his shoulders. 

The skin moves in the water around him like a creature of its own mind, smooth and natural flowing movements. It curls around his wrists, clings to his shoulders and arms. He can feel it around his neck and against his legs. 

And then he feels it change. 

It is a dizzying sensation, a warping of his bones. A change to his lungs and a pull behind his throat. He looks down and sees his body the same as it's always been, every inescapable part of him that he loved and hated, a healed and hurt shell for the weary soul. If there is a sharpness to his teeth, a curl to his fingernails, a twist in his throat where his voice sits, waiting to call, he does not find it alien. 

He should be dead, he is drowning--he has been drowned and there is no breath left in his lungs, no beat to his heart, and he should be dead. But his fingers still twitch, and his arms still move. His eyes still blink; Jon’s face, with his careful eyes and his scars, kept in crystal clear focus, even without his glasses.

A flurry of bubbles erupt from Jon, his lips parted in an inaudible gasp. In tandem, Martin can feel every scrap of fragile, cautious hope that surges forth-- _hope-love-love-love_ \--like a livewire to Jon’s soul.

The sea sings, like a welcoming choir and Martin wants to weep with it.

\--

When they break the surface he gasps, expelling the water from his lungs to make room for air. Each breath feels like the indulgence of a childish habit long since outgrow. He stares dazedly at Jon, who of the two of them is the one coughing and hacking like he had been the one drowning.

He is thrown from his thoughts by an agonized sound, and his heart leaps into his throat again, he’s not ready for another hardship, the next heartbreak will be the end of him--but it’s only the last mechanized wail from the ship, well into the last of its death throes. The Tundra is destroyed. There are no other words for it. It sinks, steadily, smoking and burning as it goes, ready to be devoured by the hungry ocean. 

The rain is coming down in earnest now. He clutches the skin tightly. It feels present around him, but no longer fused to his soul, he mourns its separation so vividly he chokes; his hands scramble and shake and catch on the threads of Jon's shirt. He feels everything clearly, fully and too much. He’s crying, tears mixing imperceptibly with the saltwater. 

_I’m sorry_ , he tries to say, but his throat is ragged with salt water and all that comes out is a garbled choke and more tears. 

Jon shushes him softly, _it’s alright_.

He leans forward and for a wild, dizzying moment Martin is sure he’s about to be kissed. But Jon changes course, and his head bumps into the crook of Martin’s shoulder, his damp hair tickling Martin’s ear. He can feel every single point of contact between them, Jon’s breathing slowly unwinding from it’s erratic pants into something slow, even as his hands hold fast to Martin--as if he were seconds away from drifting off. 

He wants to say something, he has reassurances rushing to jump across his tongue and spill from his lips. But they’ll come out wrong, he knows. There is nothing he could say just now. 

Martin noses his head to the side, pressing a terrified kiss to Jon’s temple. Just the shaky press of lips to clammy skin, a soft confession, bare and flayed open by trauma but still present. 

Quietly, and without words, it is returned to him in the barely there squeeze of fingers around his, in the slight turn of Jon’s head and the equally tender sigh exhaled into his jaw, where he stakes his own kiss, warm and like a brand on Martin’s cold skin.

“Did we die?” Martin croaks. his voice sounds wrong; harsh, too loud in the gentle they envelop themselves in, and salt torn. Underneath all of that is the same hollowness he felt back aboard the Tundra, still lurking in the recesses of his mind. 

He feels Jon shake his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

A shudder works its way through him, and passes to Jon like an afterthought. 

“Come home.” Jon breathes into him, and he nods.

\--

There is something apocalyptic in the air, as the Safehouse comes into view. The rain beats down on the cabin roof and lightning scores the sky, striking angry flashes of white into Martin’s vision. The sea turns in terrifying thrashes, gnashing and spitting with venom, though they float in the center of it all, untouched by its fury.

Jon looks at home in it. 

Tim hauls them out of the water, still covered in grime and ash, face lit by the last burning flames of the sinking ship behind them. There is a separate storm raging in his eyes, tension in his arms as he pulls Jon aboard. 

He doesn't have time to dwell on it, or even to feel relief that Tim’s alive. Martin puts his weight back upon his legs, his ankle gives out from under him yet again, and this time there's no numbing fog to quell the sharp lance of pain that rockets up his leg. 

Jon hovers, mumbling quietly as he helps him over to the cabin, oblivious to the way Tim broods darkly behind them. He darts away the moment Martin settles into a chair, and vaguely he knows that Tim is speaking, hushed so Martin can’t quite hear it.

Jon drags him further away from the cabin, the low voices barely carrying far enough for him to make out. 

"--left, just _left,_ Jon." Tim sounds angry, scared.

"I know--" Jon just sounds tired.

Martin sucks in a shaky breath and tries to tune them out. He stares blankly at the wall, then slowly, down at the skin still clinging to his shoulders. 

Jon hadn't taken it back from him, hadn't even asked about it. 

His gaze slides aimlessly, waterlogged and exhausted. There aren’t mirrors in the cabin, so when he catches sight of his reflection it’s through the shiny screen of Tim's abandoned laptop, sitting innocuously on the table beside him. 

His breath catches in his throat. 

He had been expecting…

He knew…

He looks wrong. 

All the life has been drained out of him, the color of his hair, his eyes--all gone. He brings up a hand to touch his paled skin, and barely feels it. He clasps his hands together, and then...lets go, and watches with mute fascination as they glide through each other, like ships passing in the night. 

Here he is, neither human nor selkie, but a startling and terrible reminder of the Tundra. Perhaps forever. He feels something sharp inside of him snap and he crumples inward, slapping the laptop closed with a shaky hand, swallowing hard. 

It feels stupid, but he had hoped after everything, that maybe of all the things that had just laid claims upon him...he had hoped he would look like Jon. Or Daisy. That he would take after their sharp features, brilliant and harsh. He looks at his hands again, and finds them unassuming; his nails dulled and one broken horribly, but no longer claws. 

The skin still radiates the same warmth like a wave, comforting him into a lull, like Jon is still speaking to him, in a way. 

The voices break him from his stupor once again. 

"--and what, that's _it?_ " Tim’s voice has risen to a shout. 

"What would you have me do? Go _back?_ " 

Martin looks back out the door in time to see Jon punctuate his words with a vicious arc of his arm--the other clutches something tightly to his chest--as Tim looms. It’s a little frightening, even from this distance, to see Tim using his height to intimidate, with his gentleness removed he appears harsher, immovable, and Jon takes a minute step back. 

Tim doesn’t bat an eye, he pushes into the space Jon retreats from. "How about some god damn sympathy, you emotionless bastard? Daisy just died for you and you don’t even--" 

" _Enough._ " Jon snaps, he shakes his head and catches sight of Martin. 

He blinks, surprised almost, to be seen. Jon softens, his tense shoulders going lax and Martin can feel the devotion in his gaze, the worry. Combined with the surge of secondhand emotions from the warm skin around him, it’s almost too much to bear.

God, Jon’s been looking at him like this the entire time, he _knows_.

Tim says something, his hands curled into fists by his sides and that reverent look is stolen away by something wretched. The man utters one last scathing statement that Martin cannot hear, and Jon flinches. 

He has a vicious look of grim satisfaction as he turns away. 

Jon sways unsteadily where he’s left, unsure, staring at Tim’s back as he stalks across the deck, battered by the rain but uncaring. 

Slowly, Jon drifts back toward Martin, looking like a ghost. Shoulder hiked up protectively, he stops in the doorway, hovering. As if the sanctuary of his own home was no longer made for him.

“Is Tim...is he alright?” Martin asks, though he knows the answer.

“I-” Jon’s face twists, “can we--not right now.”

Martin nods, the motion sending him into dizzy spirals, his hair falling into his eyes. He touches the tips of his curls, snagging on tangles harshly. It’s less soft, perhaps just a side effect of the salt water. 

“It still looks lovely.” Jon states, somewhat stiffly, tense even now. His fingers are white knuckled around two water bottles, and he still won’t breach the threshold.

Martin doesn’t really know what to say to that, his jaw works uselessly and he has to fight back the urge to simply burst into tears, overwhelmed and aching from the distance between them. He settles for awkwardly shuffling to grasp the first aid kit from it’s half opened state under the table. He sets it on the table with a light thud and Jon jumps as if struck. 

Wordlessly, Martin pats the seat next to him.

Jon hesitates, “You don’t have to,” he says, even as he crosses the short distance between them and sinks into the chair, close enough that he brushes up against Martin with every other breath. 

Martin nods, and picks out the antiseptic and a clean towel from off the floor. “I want to.”

This seems to be the right thing to say; Jon shoots him a wondrous, disbelieving look, but otherwise goes still and pilant.

So he sets to work cleaning the damage from his skin, skimming lightly over the harsh bruises circling Jon’s throat, murmuring an apology when he gasps in pain as he pulls a small shard of exploded plaster from Jon’s shoulder. 

He falters at the wicked gouge in Jon’s arm, the skin is shredded--though he’s grateful he doesn’t see down to the bone--where Daisy’s teeth had clamped down and held, and still bleeding sluggishly. His hands are too shaky to even consider stitches, so he disinfects and wraps it in gauze best he can. 

“What else?” Martin asks quietly, scanning Jon all over for injuries he might have missed. 

Jon shrugs, “I’m alright.” 

" _Jon._ " 

Battered beyond belief and tightly tied together with gauze and medical tape, Jon looks so far from _fine_ Martin almost laughs before he sobers up again. It strikes him as unfair, that Jon is the one to suffer the most for his mistakes. 

Jon isn't listening to him. He drops to his knees in front of Martin, tenderly maneuvering his leg until he can slide the singed and battered tatters of his trouser up, touching the swollen skin around his ankle delicately. 

Martin hisses involuntarily, and Jon makes a soft murmuring sound in response, pressing one of the cold water bottles to his skin. 

"Jon," Martin says again, for lack of anything else to say.

When he looks up, Martin reaches down to cradle his face, just staring for a moment, drinking his fill, noting the subtle shift that has Jon pressing his cheek further into Martin's palm. 

“Please don't hide from me, not now." Martin says. He tugs gently, and Jon follows him back up. He allows Martin to pull him in close, close enough he can breathe him in, but stills his hands before he can do more.

Jon shakes his head, tipping forward until he leans fully into Martin’s side. “You can’t fix everything.”

“Says you.”

“You don’t have to fix the world, Martin.” Jon says, with the crushing tone of one that had once tried over and over and _over_. “At least, not alone.”

And he wants to believe that, he wants to believe that down to his very fucking bones. After years and years of ripping pieces of himself apart to cram in the holes and batter down the hatches of his less then perfect existence, after dial tones and smiles that don’t quite reach the eyes, and his _‘I love you’_ s being met by disdain and silence--he would like to believe that. 

“Did you mean...what you said.” Martin asks, with no small amount of painful, agonizing fear. “On the Tundra, in that-that place. You were talking to me, I think. I don’t know if you remember, but-”

He wonders if it’s cheating, asking for sincerity with a literal hand on Jon’s soul--which trembles around him, quaking yet unyielding, stubborn to shelter Martin still. 

“I do.” Jon says, gentling his voice until it’s a soft murmur into Martin’s shoulder, his breath hot on his skin through the damp fabric. “And I did-I mean it. I still do.”

Martin _warms_. His voice is fragile, and hoarse with more then salt water. “Okay.” 

He cranes his neck to catch Jon’s eye, and Jon smiles, or at least he tries to. It sits on his mouth off kilter, too close to turning into a grimace, too close to tears. “I love you.” he says in a rush, and just as quickly, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Martin soothes, “Thank you for coming after me.” 

He feels a thrill run through the skin, a small lightning bolt of exhausted exhilarance; and alongside it, Jon’s hand, lightly skimming over the surface of it, as if terrified it would crumble under his touch.

Martin starts to nudge the skin off his shoulders, though painfully. Jon is quick to stop him. 

“Don’t.” he pushes it back into Martin’s arms, and all Martin can feel is love. “It’s yours.” 

Martin nods, reaches blindly for Jon instead, lets their fingers tangle clumsily and without thought as Jon lets out the breath he had been holding since they left the water and it comes out as a pettering sob. 

The lulling fog still sits patiently in the back of his mind, a formless promise of what could be. But there is a solidity in the shape of Jon's scarred hands in his, a call that speaks to him of a different kind of promise. 

They sit close to one another now, in their makeshift sanctuary, drifting farther and farther from familiarity but that isn’t such a terrible thing. He is exactly where he wants to be, where he belongs. He has found his home, in the family of things. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope that was a satisfying end (and that it made sense) EDIT: fun fact! the original ending was going to straight up be jon drowning the both of them and they literally die! so you might say they got off pretty lightly!
> 
> this work is going to be a series! i have at the least two more fics planned/in the writing stages, though they'll be shorter and from different povs (daisy and jon this time)

**Author's Note:**

> i'll be posting chapters tuesday and thursday (edit as of 7/28: going down to every tuesday only because of work and time restraints), i do read all the comments even if i don't respond to every single one! 
> 
> and to those that might be worried, the drowning tag does not mean there's a major nor minor character death that occurs outside of canonical character deaths.
> 
> as always you can find me on tumblr @godshaper


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